Do I Dream Again?
by Lady DiMera
Summary: Christine is consumed with regret and grief from the mistakes of her past. As she resolves to make a new life for herself, her Angel follows...
1. Cold Unfeeling Light

Christine ran as hard as she could...

Gasping for breath, she ran through tunnels and mazes and trap doors, groping out in the pitch black dark with her hands but seeing nothing...feeling nothing. All around, she was enshrouded in mist...or was it smoke from the fire raging above in the Paris Opera House?

On and on, she ran until she reached the underground lake.

Where was the boat? She had to find the boat!

It was so dark she could not see anything, not even her own hands reaching out before her. She could not see anything at all!

But then it appeared, floating up from the depths of the cold water with a soft gurgle…the faint whiteness of a mask...

"Angel!" she screamed. "Angel!"

The stinking filth of the water made her want to wretch as she waded into the lake desperately. Feeling the solidness of the man's shoulders, she pulled at him frantically, trying to get him back to safety and dry land. She tugged so hard at his soaked frame that her muscles screamed in agony. When she succeeded, for some moments, she could do nothing but clutch for breath, her heart pounding so hard that her chest hurt.

Even in the pitch blackness, although she could barely see him, she knew it was him. Her Angel. Her Phantom.

"Please don't die!" she begged, falling to her knees beside him as she pulled him close in her arms. "Please don't die!"

Christine pressed her lips to his frozen mouth, praying that he would steal the breath away from her own body so that he might live. She held his head to her breasts, cuddling him as if he were a long lost child. She kissed him and stroked the wisps of his hair as she rocked back and forth. She slapped at his face frantically, pleading with him to waken. She screamed and sobbed.

Yet all attempts were useless.

He was dead, bloated and pale from having drowned himself in the underground lake. Hysterical with grief, she took off his mask and stroked his mottled cheek. His infected face did not faze her in the slightest now…now when it no longer mattered. Her tears fell upon his mask like rain.

"Forgive me, my Angel," she sobbed. "Forgive me…"

Then his eyes opened...yet they were the lifeless unfocused eyes of a dead man.

"You did this, Christine..." he hissed with fury. "Damn you to hell! You did this to us both!"

And then his hands suddenly lurched for her throat…hurting her...squeezing the life out of her…

-------------------------------

Clutching at her neck and gasping for breath, Christine awoke with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Only after a few minutes was she aware that this was merely another nightmare, one of many that she had suffered since she read the announcement in the Epoque only a week ago.

ERIK IS DEAD.

The damning three words had killed something inside of herself. She felt as if part of her soul had died with that sentence. And she could not find enough peace to sleep. She wondered if she would ever know rest again.

Safe and warm in the large bed of the guestroom in the de Chagny estate, Christine halfway wished she were in the hell of the catacombs, cold and wet, being choked by the vengeful ghost of the Phantom of the Opera. Then at least her torment would end at last. And she could join her Angel of Music and her father in death.

Sitting up slowly, Christine moaned in disgust at the warm pink cotton blankets and dainty floral sheets of the large poster bed. Moonlight streamed into her window, making the guest room a frilly paradise. She did not deserve such niceties. She did not want them.

After the fateful night of _Don Juan Triumphant_, Raoul had desired to marry right away. He had wanted to find a priest and run away to the North in a mad dash. But Christine had convinced him otherwise. Too much had happened. She could not rush headlong into a new marriage and family when she could still hear that haunting music box melody in her head. She could not look at Raoul and profess love to him when she still felt the Phantom's eyes burning into her soul.

But she did not tell him those things. She simply said that she had always wanted a proper wedding, not a sordid elopement. And she needed time to recuperate from her ordeal before she would be up for such an event. Never mind the scandal, she insisted. Her name was forever linked with the Phantom of the Opera. She had grown quite accustomed to all of the lies spread about her.

Fortunately, she had made Raoul see reason. Yet he insisted that she stay in the de Chagny estate, properly chaperoned by his family members, of course. She asked why she could not just stay with Mamma Valerius, the woman who had helped raised her since she was six years of age.

"She is much too old to care for you, Christine," he answered. "And you are my responsibility now."

Christine wanted to answer that she did not need caring for, that she did not want to be anyone's responsibility. Yet she was too sad to even get up the fortitude to argue with her fiancé. Thus, she remained at the de Chagny estate, suffering the cold glances of his sisters. They did not approve of a common chorus girl marrying into one of the most distinguished families of all France. Although they were too polite to say so, their feelings were evident.

Such an attitude from his family gave Christine further pause. Did she want to spend the rest of her days constantly being looked down upon simply because she had not been born into wealth?

Yet when Erik's announcement appeared in the newspaper, Raoul was more determined than ever that they should marry as soon as possible. She did not understand why he was in such a sudden rush. After all, what harm could come from a dead man? Her fiancé answered that he did not believe Erik dead simply because of a skeleton found which could easily have been a victim of the Commune. Nor did he set any weight by that announcement in the papers, he continued. It could have been someone's idea of a prank. Maybe even Erik had even posted the notice so that he could more successfully kidnap her again.

Christine had bit her tongue when he made such foolish statements. Trying so hard to be the lady he expected her to be, she did not flail out at him with her fists and curse him for his stupidity as she so yearned to do. Sometimes she swore that Raoul loved the idea of being the gallant hero more than he loved her. He had won her, after all. Why was he still wanting to fight the Phantom when there was no fight left to be had?

Besides, she knew that he was wrong. Erik was indeed dead for she had killed him.

That night, as he clung to his music box, bereft and hopeless, pleading his love for her. What had she said? What had she done? She simply gave him back his ring and walked away. Consumed with disappointment and sadness from his betrayal, she had all but handed him a death sentence as she left his side.

That had been only one of so many poor choices she had made and bitterly rued.

If only she had not been such a foolish girl, so easily taken in with promises of ghosts and angels…

If only she had not given in to the temptation of curiosity, ripping off her Angel's mask to see his face…

If only she had not been so afraid of him…perhaps her Angel would not have murdered...

Perhaps he would still be alive…

But all regrets and recriminations were of no point now. What was done was done. The past was dead.

All Christine could do now was to attempt to set the future right. This thought propelled her to action.

Two days ago, Christine had been horribly insulted when Raoul's sister, Lucille de Chagny, offered her a great sum of money to quietly abandon her fiancé and leave town never to return. In fact, she had been so insulted that she called his sister a word that she had never before spoken to anyone. Yet, as time passed, she had thought on the offer with more consideration than she had expected to.

For the last month, Christine had felt the walls closing in on her. She was growing to resent Raoul's possessive attitude of her. She despised his relatives. She found the wealthy estate cold and forbidding. She missed performing and singing on stage. In short, she no longer felt like Christine Daae but like a stranger that she did not recognize. Such a realization frightened her to the core.

Even though her Angel of Music had turned out to be a murdering madman, at least he always knew her for who she was. He had taken her love of music and had made her the toast of Paris. He had helped her see that her grief for her father could strengthen her acting as she performed on stage. He took all that she loved in life and helped her see how she could use such passion to enhance her career. Even now when he was gone forever, she had that knowledge that he had given her. She had that gift for the rest of her days. The thought of squandering all of her hard work, technique and talent away on a remote estate made her ill. And for what? To be bullied about by a young spoiled little boy and to be spurned by his well-to-do relatives...

This was not the life for her.

With strengthened resolve, she dressed in a gray traveling suit, the only dress not already packed in her valise. Quietly, she slipped past Raoul's room. But then she stopped and set down her bag, despite her better judgment.

Just one more glance at him, she thought as she entered his bedroom, although she would not dare to wake him to say goodbye.

Raoul de Chagny was a handsome man, even in sleep. He looked like an innocent babe, so relaxed and at peace he was with the world. How many nights had she dreamed of awakening beside him, admiring his golden locks and sapphire blue eyes?

What woman wouldn't want to marry a storybook lover? After all, the fair maiden was supposed to marry the prince, wasn't she? She was supposed to become a princess and live happily ever after in his castle. She wasn't supposed to suffer with grief and guilt at the death of the monster that the prince had helped to slay.

And even now, despite Erik's death, she felt those mysterious cravings in her body whenever she thought of his masked face. His death did not absolve her of her own sinful longings. Indeed, now that the threat of his strong personality was gone, those yearnings seemed to have only intensified in a morbid sort of way. Even from his grave in the depths of the catacombs, the beast fed from her…hungrily and greedily…driving her mad…

She was no fit woman to be a Vicomtesse. And she was not the innocent princess that the prince believed her to be. Raoul de Chagny was an honorable man. She could not sentence him to a loveless marriage. She would not help to destroy yet another man she had only meant to care for. How much of her professed love for him had simply been a means of holding on to her father from the grave?

Yet, Raoul was no longer that little boy who retrieved her scarf at Trestraou.

And she was no longer a little girl who believed in dark stories of the North.

"Forgive me, Raoul…" she whispered as she brushed the soft golden locks of his forehead. "I truly thought I loved you. Please believe that I never lied to you..."

Then retrieving her packed valise, Christine started for the hallway, knocking softly on Lucille de Chagny's door.

The fairy tale romance was at an end.


	2. Think of Me

The red wine spilled upon the copy of the _Epoque_, giving the newspaper the appearance of being drenched in blood. How appropriate with the words ERIK IS DEAD standing out in the background of the advertisements.

"Blast!" the drunken man in the mask cursed, but then thought better of it.

No matter, Erik said to himself as he stumbled from the bed and poured himself another glass of Pinot Noir. The rumors of his death had been highly exaggerated anyway. He laughed at his own joke with a slight hiccup before returning to the naked form in his bed. He stroked the feminine flesh, momentarily cuddling up to the woman and losing himself in fantasy.

At last, he had thrown his pride and fastidiousness to the winds and hired a working girl to warm his bed. Who knew that this creature of the night would ultimately keep him alive just a little longer?

The night Christine had run away from him, in a moment of complete despair, Erik had tried to commit suicide. After smashing all of the mirrors in his hideout with ironic bitterness, he took a shard of mirror, slicing it across his wrists. He laid back on the ground, quite ready never to live another day of the cruel life he had been fated with. Damn Madame Giry for finding him and saving his life! The cuts had not been very deep in actuality and he recovered quickly.

Several nights later, he wandered the streets and back alleys of Paris, contemplating how he could end his life in peace without some foolish do-gooder trying to save him from himself. Usually, he did not like to be out of doors for so long, but he was too restless, too tired of fighting with memories. He needed the escape and no longer even cared if he was arrested. That was when he saw Elissa.

Elissa was no typical prostitute, lewdly displaying her wares while licking her lips suggestively. She appeared a bit of a thin waif, obviously chilled in the night air and wrapped up in a blanket too thin to be of much use. Apparently, her career as a whore was not going well. Yet while her figure was even more skeletal than his own, her face was pretty in a delicate sort of way. And she had beautiful honey blonde hair that shown in the moonlight.

"Please, Monsieur," she begged, touching him gently on the wrist. "I shall do anything you like. And I am not too expensive."

What it must cost that girl to throw herself upon the mercy of a masked freak such as him? How desperate was she in need of money and clothes and food?

Erik felt something he thought was dead inside of himself: compassion. Besides, he thought that he would at least end his life as a man and not as a pathetic love-hungry virgin.

"I shall give you payment, food and clothing in exchange for your services," he offered. "But I do not want to copulate in the middle of an alleyway like a tomcat. If you like, you shall come to my home for our exchange. My privacy is dear to me and you shall be blindfolded until you reach my bedroom. Those are my terms."

For a moment, fear flashed in her brown eyes at his unusual requests. Yet starvation seemed the more imminent threat. She agreed.

Erik led the woman blindfolded to the new area of the catacombs that he had staked out for himself. After his original home had been nearly destroyed as half of Paris was out to kill him, he had to relocate to his alternate hideout underground through a series of complex trap doors. Paranoia was sometimes a valuable ally. He had thought that he was being overly cautious when he had created the spare rooms to serve as a bunker in case of an emergency. But now, that little plan had saved his life as he knew that the police would never be clever enough to find him there. Yet, he was a man with a price on his head and he had to be cautious. His new rooms were deeper into the bowels of the earth and smaller. While even Erik felt a bit claustrophobic in this new space, what he hated the most was the loss of his possessions, particularly his large pipe organ. It would take some time to be able to restore what he had lost. As of yet, he had done nothing to rebuild the destruction of his life. All of his creative instincts seemed to have shriveled up and died at any rate.

After a few sessions of sex, Erik found that he liked the poor prostitute that he had rescued. The way to Elissa's heart was through her stomach. After a few sandwiches and sweets, she would become quite amorous and do her job enthusiastically. It was not love, but it was not bad, and not nearly as demeaning as he had feared for all of those years. She had given him quite an education in the art of fucking. Not only did she please him with all of her prostitute's tricks, but he had even managed to sincerely make her reach a few real climaxes as well. It was no mean accomplishment to make a woman of the streets really feel something in bed besides the weight of gold coins.

There was another reason he consorted with Elissa, one much more compelling than simply trying to help a human being survive poverty. If he squinted his eyes and ignored the color of her hair, he could pretend she was Christine. When he had enough to drink, he could almost convince himself that he was really with her, his true love. And as he lost himself in Elissa's flesh, he would close his eyes and pretend…

At least, in that way, Christine could still be his…for he had always loved her, it seemed…ever since she was a peevish chorus girl…

* * *

_Think of me…think of me fondly…_

"Again!" Erik bellowed through the two-way mirror of Christine's dressing room.

"Think of me…think..."

"Again!"

"Think of…"

"Again!"

"Thi…"

"Again!"

"Oh!" Christine Daae cried out in indignation, turning away from the mirror petulantly as she prepared to storm out of the room. "You cannot be a true angel from the heavens for you are simply insufferable! I will not allow you to torture me in such a fashion!"

"As you wish, my dear…" he answered. "And this is the payment I get for trying to help you? Oh, well. I understand the Opera Populaire usually replaces their dancers every few years. What shall happen to you, I wonder, once you are ousted from the corps de ballet? Shall you become a seamstress? Or perhaps a chambermaid all buried in black and white?"

Stopping in her tracks, Christine straightened her shoulders proudly. Assuming an expression of dignity she could not possibly be feeling, she walked back to the mirror and glared at her reflection with turbulent rage.

"Oh, if looks could kill!" he taunted with a chuckle.

"I do not see why you have to be so mean to me," she chided him, narrowing her eyes at him even when she could not see him.

Erik wished he could reach out and hug her tight. Even when she was being a brat as she was now, he preferred her churlishness to her fear. And she had come a long way from that depressed sullen creature that he had first encountered…

When Erik had first spied her on the stage during a production of Hannibal, dancing in the chorus, he was completely captivated by her face and body. She was his dream girl, the one he had always fantasized about when he dared to dream of a wife. Yet, her eyes were always so sad and she never smiled. Why, even in his pitiful state, he felt absolutely jovial in comparison to her.

What made him continue to watch her with such fascination? Lust? Idleness? Curiosity? All three?

His mild interest blossomed into something more as he started to take to spying upon her in her dressing room. At first, his interest was purely as a spectator. How he loved to watch her change clothes, hungrily drinking in the sight of her breasts and legs! How he wished he could see her without her cumbersome undergarments and really feel sated! As she dressed, she would sing to herself. Her voice was good, yet rough and untrained. What an entrancing diva she would make with the proper skills! How wondrous it would be to see her in the center of the stage rather than that insipid Carlotta!

Unable to turn away from such a brilliant dream, Erik began to rack his brain as to how to make such a thing happen. As he would watch Christine, she would often get down on her knees and pray, particularly before a performance. She would talk to her dead father and ask him when he was going to send her the Angel of Music. She would cry and plead how she needed his guidance so much. Erik felt envious of a man who was so wanted, even if the poor sod was dead. That was when the plan began to take shape…

For the first few times, when he came to her in the guise of the Angel of Music that her father had sent to her, she was justifiably terrified. She seemed more concerned that she was losing her mind than anything else. Often, she fretted that her grief for her father had driven her into some sort of nervous breakdown. She would ignore him when he spoke to her and beat at her temples as if she could drive him away out of her psyche. It had taken quite a lot of convincing on his part to make her see that he was no hallucination and that he only wanted to help her.

As it was, Christine was now so close to becoming the diva that he wanted. Her sullenness had disappeared. She had grown more confident every day. In fact, like a delicate flower, she was blossoming right before his eyes. She need only apply herself…

"My dear, my point is that you must be in the correct frame of mind to sing the song before you even open your mouth for the first note" he explained, doing his best to sound patient. "Do not concentrate on your looks or your voice. Concentrate on what you are singing about. You are seeing your lover for the very last time. You are pledging your heart to him, begging him never to forget you, though your parting is inevitable. The audience wants to see you feel that way. They want to feel that way too. People do not attend the opera just to hear beautiful music and perfect voices. They want to be swept away in the story as well. It is your responsibility as a performer to meet that obligation."

"I am trying to, Angel…" she pleaded, all pride forgotten.

"I am sorry, my dear, but I do not believe you."

"Maybe it is simply because…" she stopped.

"Yes?"

"I have no lover," she confided with a blush. "I've never had one. What would I know about parting with such a person? What would I know about losing what I've never had?"

Erik groaned softly to himself. Oh, how he would like to rectify her problem! Yet he was as inept as she was in such matters of the heart.

"Your father then," he answered gruffly, hoping his lust was not evident in his voice. "You miss him, do you not?"

"Of course, but, Angel," Christine stammered. "That is not exactly the same thing."

"Do not take things so literally," he advised. "Obviously you miss your father differently than you would miss a lover, but the audience does not know that. As long as you concentrate on someone dear to you while you sing, that is what matters. Do you think that when Piangi plays Othello that he ruminates on some woman he killed in the past who has cheated on him? Of course not!" Then with a cruel laugh, he added, "Although I find it hard to think on any woman marrying him at all."

Christine giggled charmingly in response, making his heart melt.

"He probably thinks on some grocer who cheated him of his change or of some bill collector pleading for money," Erik continued with his lecture. "Whatever the event, he concentrates on it so much that he feels every bit as much of a murderous rage as Othello would feel when he slays Desdemona. Understand?"

"I think so."

"Good."

Secretly, Erik felt like Piangi was an atrocious actor who thought of nothing on stage but his next payment and hearty meal, but it would not serve Christine to know that.

"Remember it is better to make inaccurate choices than none at all. It is better to be wrong and alive than correct and dead. Now begin again…"

Christine took a moment before she sang. Her expression softened. Erik swore he could actually see her eyes shift as she imagined her father's face before her.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye…"

"Bravissima, my dear," he whispered. "Much better, my diva, my love…"

* * *

When Erik sent Elissa on her way with a nice purse full of change in order for her to buy a new dress for herself, he then sought out Madame Giry. With a gesture, he managed to lure her away from her rehearsal.

"Please, Erik, you know I don't like to be bothered when I am teaching! And you smell like you've been bathing in alcohol! Really, it's disgraceful!" she complained.

"Any news?"

"No, my dear," Giry answered him with an irritated sigh, rather put out. He had asked her the same question every day. He supposed that anyone would be driven to distraction, even the unshakeable Giry.

"What is taking them so long?" he raved. "That Vicomte swore he would marry her at once. Well, why in the hell hasn't he?"

"Will you please lower your voice!" she whispered fervently. "Really, you shall be caught in no time if you keep up with this habit of intoxicating yourself into oblivion."

"Why haven't they married?" he asked, ignoring her comments about his state of sobriety, or lack thereof.

"It's a mystery," Giry shrugged with seeming indifference. "Perhaps they are planning for a large affair. Such things take time." Her eyes saddened at his forlorn expression. "Please, Erik, forget about her. It is all done now. She thinks you are dead. All of Paris thinks you are dead. There is no changing the past."

With a furtive glance, she looked upon his wrists briefly, noting the faint marks where he had hurt himself.

"I do not want to see you hurt anymore than you already have been," she whispered. "I only mean to be a friend to you, Erik."

"I am not trying to get her back!" he snapped at the woman. "I merely want to know if she is married now or not! That is all! Is that such a horrible crime?"

With a curse, he stormed off and back to his new bunker.


	3. Garish Light of Day

**A/N – This chapter is dedicated to the late Luther Vandross, who has been a source of inspiration for me several times with his beautiful songs. Rest in peace, Luther…**

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* * *

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"Where to, Mademoiselle?" the coachman asked.

As Christine stared bleakly out into the foggy sky of the dawn, she hardly had an answer for him. So quickly had she wished to leave the stifling existence of the de Chagny family, she had not even thought on where she would go next. The smug attitude of Lucille de Chagny as she handed Christine a check for an obscene amount of money had only made her more desperate in her haste.

"To the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires," she answered the driver automatically. At once, she felt at peace with her answer. She would go back to Mamma Valerius, the only person she had left in her life that reminded her of home and of the girl that she once was.

When she arrived at the modest townhouse, a young serving girl answered the door, curtseying and eyeing Christine's rich garments with envy as she announced Christine's arrival and led her to Mamma Valerius' bedroom. Things must not be well with Mamma, Christine noted with dismay. She had never before spent the money on a serving girl nor was she accustomed to remaining in bed at this hour in the morning. Just how ill was she now?

The gray-haired elderly woman's frame seemed small in the large bed. She appeared much thinner and weak, yet her eyes were still alive with her spry spirit. She had a wizened face, rich with experience over the years as she had seen much of life. At the very sight of her, Christine felt as if she had found a rock to cling to in the midst of a storm.

"Christine?" Mamma Valerius cried out in surprise, extending a wrinkled hand out to her from her bed. "What on earth...?"

"Hello, Mamma," she whispered, fighting back tears unsuccessfully.

"Oh, my dear..." Mamma murmured, gesturing for her to sit next to her on the bed.

Christine buried her face onto the old woman's shoulder, sobbing so hard she thought she would never stop. She hated herself for giving in to the emotion which had been looming over her for days. Yet, she could not help herself. At last, she could give in to her grief in peace.

"Forgive me, Mamma," she sniffled, trying to calm herself. "I have no right to come here and fall apart on you like this." Especially when you look like you are unwell yourself, she thought bitterly.

"There, there, child..." Mamma soothed, patting her arm. "Why are you here so early in the morning and all upset? What does such a pretty girl have to be so upset about? Why, you've got the entire world at your fingertips, love, with that wealthy fiancé of yours."

"I've left him, Mamma," Christine confessed.

"What!"

"I know you must think me mad, but I simply couldn't go through with it," she admitted. "I am just so confused. I felt as if I were on the verge of making a dreadful mistake. And when his horrid sister, Lucille, offered me money to go away, I accepted her offer."

"Oh, my poor child!" Mamma cajoled. "But this is not just about the difficulties with his family nor a simple case of cold feet, is it?"

Christine shook her head. She could be nothing but totally honest with Mamma.

"You are still thinking on the Angel, aren't you?"

Tears renewed as Mamma Valerius mentioned her tormentor.

"I also read the notice of his death in the paper, child," Mamma said. "It is all over now and you must put the memories of your Angel behind you."

"He was no Angel, Mamma," she said softly. "Only a man. A lonely tormented man who I left to rot to death under the earth. I might as well have shot him."

"He released you, did he not? That is what you have always told me."

Christine merely shook her head, allowing herself no comfort.

"I just as good as killed him, Mamma," she said sadly. "I've thought on this for some time now. He needed me. I was all that he had…and I threw him away. I had just been so hurt. You know how I loved Papa. And he knew it too. He took advantage of my grief in the cruelest sort of way. I could not forgive him for that. But I never meant for things to go so far. I never wanted him to die. And now I can't seem to forgive myself…"

"You are not entirely to blame, dear," Mamma said. "After all, I was a foolish old woman who led you to believe that he was the Angel of Music." She shook her head sadly. "Sometimes the old legends and superstitions can be harmful for the unwary. You should consider yourself fortunate that you escaped from that man unscathed."

"I don't think that I have, Mamma," Christine answered. "Even now, he haunts me from the grave in my dreams..." She sobbed pitifully. "And I have such horrible nightmares! And I can hardly ever just sleep anymore!"

"Oh, what melodramatic nonsense!" the woman scoffed. "You are just tired and overwrought, my dear."

"But do you see why I could not stay with Raoul?" she pleaded. "Do you understand why I could not marry him?"

Mamma Valerius nodded. "Marriage is no easy thing, child. It would do you good to sort out your feelings alone for a while. Where are you going to go?"

"I am not sure yet," Christine answered truthfully, calming somewhat as she considered her future. "I think I should like to continue with my singing in some fashion or other."

"But, Christine, how could you dare to do that now?"

"There are other places in the world besides Paris, Mamma," she answered with a shrug. 'And I have quite a lot of money now. I could travel wherever I wanted. There has been tell of the Savoy Opera House recently opened in London. The theater has been created expressly to perform works of operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan."

"Who?" Mamma Valerius asked.

"They are a composer and lyricist who are quite popular these days for writing satires," Christine answered, trying not to sound condescending. Not everyone could be well versed in the performing arts. "They have already written _H.M.S. Pinafore_ and _The Pirates of Penzance_. There are sure to be many more of these works to come. While I do not feel up to performing right now, perhaps I could hire myself out as a musical tutor of sorts."

"Go lie down in the guest room," Mamma suggested. "It is a small room no larger than the size of a closet, but it will serve. Get a few hours sleep and we shall discuss the matter once you are more recovered."

Christine nodded as she arose, kissing Mamma's hand before leaving. Retiring to the guest room, she shut and locked the door, wrenching off her clothing and her corset as quickly as possible. At last, she felt she could breathe again. Corsets had never bothered her so before, but now she felt caged up and stifled all of the time. She yanked her hair down from its tight bun at the back of her neck. She just wanted to be free, to be free…

Dressed only in her undergarments, she stared at her reflection in the mirror over the bedroom dresser. Her dark eyes were wide with despair and panic with her hair wildly curling about her bare shoulders. Who was this deranged woman staring back at her in her reflection? And as she stared, she strained to see another reflection: one of a man and a mask…

"Angel…" she whispered.

Shaking her head in despair, she turned away from the mirror and flung herself onto the bed, burying herself under a woolen blanket. She was truly going mad.

* * *

_I am your Angel. Come to me, Angel of Music…_

Would she ever forget the first sight of that mask in her dressing mirror at the Paris Opera House?

Still high from the euphoria of the first triumph of her life on stage, Christine had been drowned in praise from all quarters. The Managers, the corps de ballet, other principals of the Opera Company, strangers…everyone seemed to adore her. Yet she only craved the approval from her Master. Only he understood how hard she had worked to get to this moment. Only he knew how much this triumph really meant. Together, they had worked so hard, rehearsing each song with agonizing detail and repetition. Yet the hours had flown by, even when he would be the cruelest of task masters. Her love of music combined with the steady presence of her teacher did not make practice a hardship but a pleasure. And as she had been on stage that night, she had no stage fright. All of those eyes upon her only added to the excitement and exhilaration of her passion. She knew that somewhere he was watching her. And she sang every song, every note, for him.

But his praise had been short lived when the Vicomte de Chagny came to visit her backstage, insisting that she join him for supper that evening.

How afraid she had been that her Master would leave her forever, abandoning her for her lack of discipline and faithfulness when her sights had been swayed by the dashing Vicomte. She pleaded with him to forgive her. To her surprise, he had not only found pity on her but appeared right before her eyes. Her Angel come down from the heavens for her!

When his masked figure appeared from out of nowhere to gaze at her from her mirror, a voice of sanity tried to implore her: Christine, get hold of yourself, this cannot be! Yet, she ignored that warning. This had been her invisible Angel who had been coaching her for months. Long ago, she resigned herself to the mysterious and the supernatural which could not be explained. Surely, coming for her out of her mirror could not be such an impossible feat for a true angel.

And how like a mysterious otherworldly figure he appeared with his intense eyes peering at her from the white mask, with his immaculate hair slicked back in precise perfection, with his handsome fine clothing of black! Had she ever seen anyone so compelling, so fascinating, so enigmatic as this apparition before her eyes? And had there ever been a moment as exciting as taking his gloved hand as he led her through the pathway of the mirror into the strange dark twisting labyrinth which seemed to go on forever?

Christine's heart raced as she joined him on the strange journey. Her mind seemed drugged and fuzzy with a bizarre euphoria as they continued deeper and deeper into the earth. So beside herself was she that she was unaware that she was only dressed in a sheer dressing gown of the wispiest silk. She had already forgotten that Raoul de Chagny was awaiting on her for supper and might become concerned for her. She did not fathom the danger of joining a strange being to descend with him into an isolated world of darkness.

Her mind raced with questions. If he was an angel, why did he appear so human? Why did he wear a mask? Why was heaven underground instead of high up in the clouds? Yet she could barely feel lucid enough to try to discern the answers for herself.

Christine could recall very little of their journey, only bits and pieces. Everything had seemed strange and fuzzy to her. She could only recall glimpses of long passageways, of candles floating from the dark, of a boat in the mist. Yet the overwhelming memory was of their singing together in the dark.

Never had his voice been so beautiful and commanding as it had been as he took her down to his home. Nothing seemed to exist but that voice. With an unspoken demand, he ordered her to sing for him. She barely recognized the sensuous tones which exuded from her, barely even registered the words escaping from her lips in song. Together, their voices merged and entwined, twisting about wildly in the euphoric aftermath of their shared triumph. And she was helpless to do anything but ride the waves of their duet, straining to master each refrain, reaching higher and higher with her voice as he coaxed her to even greater heights. Whatever he asked of her, she would give and delight in the giving. She heard nothing but the sound of her trills, accompanied by his frantic gasps of pleasure. Yet still, he drove her on mercilessly until she cried out with a note she had never dreamed possible.

So intense had the experience been, she had almost fainted…

* * *

"Angel!" Christine moaned, thrashing about in her sleep. "Angel!" 

As awareness slowly came to her, she realized she had not slept long, only for a half hour or so. She had dreamed that she had once more sung with the Phantom in the darkness of the earth, still believing him to be her Angel of Music. And her body burned with that incessant need once more that she did not understand, a need which she was sure could never be fulfilled for her now.

With a moan, she buried her face underneath her pillow, trying once more to sleep, knowing that it would be a futile attempt.

Sometimes, the dreams were even worse than the nightmares…

And she knew that she would leave Paris. For she had to get away…far away from here…far away from Raoul and the Opera Populaire…and her memories of the Phantom of the Opera…


	4. Sweet Intoxication

Once more, Erik succumbed to the evils of alcohol. Sitting up in his coffin, he managed to take another swig from his bottle of brandy. Yet no amount of drink could completely numb the torments of his psyche. In fact, he felt as if he were in a pit of quicksand, slowly sinking into his own despair with no hope of escape.

Putting down the bottle, he laid down onto the red plush lining of the coffin, one of the few items of his old home he had managed to salvage. For some time, he had given up such macabre sleeping habits, having felt somewhat human when he thought that Christine might truly love him. But tonight, there was something comforting about the discomfort. Folding his arms across his chest, he pretended that he was a corpse for he truly wished he were dead this day. Or was it night? He had quite lost track of the time.

Even Elissa's charms could not raise his spirits. The prospect of mindless sex held no appeal for him this night. He had sent her home with a pocketful of change, demanding…no…insisting for nothing in returned. Yet, she seemed to be rather disappointed. He would have thought that she would be grateful to get paid without even being required to do her job. At first, she even had the temerity to refuse his money. But after he gave her a taste of his temper, she quickly learned the foolishness of arguing with him and took the money.

Perhaps it had been that conversation with Madame Giry that set him off into such a mood. It was this unbearable state of not knowing what had happened to Christine that bothered him so. He wanted to know that she had married the Vicomte. He wanted to know that his noble sacrifice for love had worked. Despite his intense jealousy and rage, he wanted to think that she was happy. Maybe then he could make peace with the reality that he had lost her forever. Perhaps then he could begin to bear to think about the next step to take with his life…that is if he even decided to remain alive…

For so long, Christine had served as his reason for living. He would wake up, just in time to bathe and dress and meet with his love for rehearsals. In the evenings, he would watch her dance on the stage from his seat in Box Five. In his spare time, he would work out plans to take revenge on her adversaries. And he would dream of the different roles that Christine, his diva, would play on the stage…Carmen, Juliet, Desdemona. And every night, he would fantasize about her naked and willing in his bed as his wife, rubbing himself into a state of silent oblivion…

Even now, when she was to marry her Vicomte, when he had tricked the entirety of Paris into thinking him dead, he still wanted her with a violent intensity that hurt. How could he be able to forget her when the image of her still burned in his brain every single second? He could still see her delicate wraithlike form, swathed in her transparent silk and lace dressing gown. Like a porcelain doll she was with her long dark curls and her soulful brown eyes. How could he ever forget how she looked the night when she was almost his?

* * *

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation…_

Erik knew it was foolhardy. He knew it was dangerous. Yet he could not resist the temptation. He could not allow Christine to be swept off her feet by that callow youth who had been sniffing around her skirts in her dressing room. This was the evening of their shared triumph. He had worked hard to see this night when Christine Daae would replace La Carlotta in _Hannibal_ and set the opera world on its heels.

Yes, this was his glory as well as Christine's. And his diva would be with him tonight, not supping away at some fancy restaurant with the foolish Vicomte de Chagny.

So he took the chance.

The Angel of Music descended on Christine from the heavens to take her away. Thus, he led her into his home deep down in the catacombs.

Skilled in the art of Mesmerism, a profession he had perfected in Persia, he used the potent mix of hypnotism and animal magnetism on Christine. He had rehearsed with her enough times to know that she could be feisty and stubborn. He also knew her well enough to know that she was prone to wild fits of fear. While he would have preferred to have her in her right mind, he was much too afraid that she would run away from him the moment she saw him appear through the trap door of her dressing room mirror.

Yet Christine had a very impressionable mind. She was of a very spiritual and imaginative temperament; thus, easily led down the path which he wanted her to walk. He had expected her to be submissive to his will, yet never had he expected her to be as responsive as she was to his suggestive powers. When he heard the rapture in her voice, he could barely contain his own animalistic desires. He was taken aback by the rosy blush in her cheeks as she gazed into his eyes. As she reached her climactic note of her song, he realized that tonight was the night to consummate their union. This was no longer a mad dream in the dark but a certain reality.

They were both ready to become lovers.

They were more than ready…

As his fingertips caressed the keyboard of his pipe organ, Erik began to sing the notes of the song that he had composed just for her. Closing her eyes, Christine sighed with a soft smile as she took in his seductive words. And, oh, it had worked so well. He could practically smell her arousal as he swayed with her back and forth. How he longed to stroke her hair, to touch the curves of her breasts and hips; yet he did not dare for fear of frightening her away and breaking the spell that they were both under. Yet the proximity of his hands to her flesh was potent enough for the both of them. Even in the darkness of his music room, he could see her nipples harden through her dressing gown as she breathed deeply, falling sway to his machinations.

For those few moments, as he had sung to her in such soft lilting tones, she was his for the taking. She would have done anything he asked of her. He could have taken her right there on the cold stone of the catacombs. He could have lifted up her skirts, set her upon his pipe organ and had his way with her without her so much as making one whimper of protest. Christine Daae had been in the palm of his hand.

If only…

* * *

If only he had not shown her that damned doll… 

Erik snarled drunkenly as he threw the wine bottle against a cavern wall.

If he hadn't have made that image of Christine in a bridal gown, she would not have fainted straightaway, putting an effective end to their romantic evening. He had thought the gift to be a beautiful work of art, a tribute to her loveliness as well as the precursor to his marriage proposal.

But he never failed to underestimate his capacity to scare people. He had never dreamed that his creation would serve as such a catalyst to terror.

And when she lay still in a swoon, unmoving, unstirring, he could not bring himself to taken advantage of her in such a state. When they made love, she would be completely lucid and awake. She would be his in every way. And he had thought that there was time, all of the time in the world for her to overcome her fears, all of the time in the world for her to learn to love him…

A stirring noise roused Erik from his drunken stupor. Grappling for his lasso, he prepared to kill whoever the intruder was. Yet his vision seemed a bit blurred at the moment. He should have to take care to focus on his aim.

Yet the footsteps were deliberately moving straight for his bunker.

Only two people knew of his existence in this new hideout. Madame Giry and the Persian. His visitor was the latter of the possibilities.

"Erik, my friend," the Daroga smirked as he entered the hideaway, gingerly sidestepping a trapdoor designed to hang him on a noose. "I am as fond of brandy as the next man, but this decadence of yours is even becoming offensive to me. You smell as if you have bathed in the stuff."

"Good evening to you, too, Nadir," Erik sniffed, making only a fleeting effort of tucking in his shirt tails and making himself somewhat presentable. So lost in cups was he that he had even misplaced his mask for a moment. He stumbled about in a bit of a fuddle.

"I believe you mean 'Good Afternoon'. Are you looking for this?" the Persian asked, handing him one of his many masks. "I nearly tripped on it as soon as I entered the bunker."

"Ah, thank you," Erik murmured. "How clumsy of me…" Taking the mask from his friend, his hands shook as he proceeded to slip it on, almost making a complete ass out of himself by putting it on upside down.

"You really have deteriorated into a mess, Erik," his friend said, shaking his head. "What would the little sultana say if she saw you in this state?"

"Probably, she would laugh her fool head off before having me drawn and quartered in front of the Shah," Erik answered glumly. "Always the little sadist, that one. And she would have done me an enormous service if she had just killed me when she had the chance."

"I don't know," Nadir laughed. 'These days, you seem quite the ladies' man. What about that enchanting blonde who seems constantly by your side these days?"

"My, you have been the observant little spy, haven't you?" Erik snapped. "I thought I was the one here who was supposed to be the stalker. I assume you are referring to Elissa?"

"Yes," he nodded. "If she is the trim young thing with the big breasts, that's the one. Dare I ask if a woman has once again conquered the heart of the Opera Ghost?"

"Not likely, Nadir," Erik answered. "Although it is none of your concern whatsoever, rest assured that we merely have a very amicable business arrangement. I give her food and she gives me sex. She ignores my mask and I ignore her profession. So far it has suited us both admirably."

"Oh, what a relief!" the Persian sighed, whisking off a fake drop of perspiration from his brow. "For a moment, I was concerned that you might be once more in the throes of love."

"Ha!" Erik sneered ferociously. "I shall never love again. My heart has been hardened to stone, Nadir. I am quite satisfied with the fine art of fucking with no emotions necessary whatsoever. Love is for fools."

The Persian paced about smugly, avoiding the pile of unwashed clothing that had been strewn along the floor of the small room. Erik could not help but feel the hairs at the back of his neck raise up. The Daroga was up to something. He could feel it. He had that strange foreboding that he was walking right into a trap set up just for him.

"Since I am now assured that your heart is quite unmoved by sentiment," the Daroga stated with a small grin, "I no longer need to worry about how you will take the news."

"What news are you talking about?" Erik hissed. "If you have something to say, will you please stop dancing about and get to the point?"

"Merely that the Vicomte de Chagny has been storming away right above our heads in the Opera House, accusing you of still being alive and having kidnapped his beloved fiancée."

"WHAT?"

"I have been spending the last few hours vacillating back and forth as to whether I should let you know on the event at all. Yet I can't stand to see you slowly committing suicide in the bottom of a wine bottle. So now you know…"

Before the Persian could even say another word, Erik was out of his coffin and on his feet, storming off in pursuit of Raoul de Chagny.


	5. The World You Knew Before

Christine stared out of the large window beside her seat as the train departed from the Paris railway station. It would be hard to leave here. This had been her home for so long, this beautiful city. Yet the scenic buildings seemed to mock her now. The sight of romantic lovers walking along the Jardin de Tuileries made her sad. The elegant stores along the Champs Elysee meant nothing to her. The starving artists along the small side streets of the West Bank reminded her of how she used to be, young and full of dreams.

With an effort, Christine tried to get a hold of herself. She did not think that the elderly couple sitting across from her in her car would appreciate her blubbering like a little baby. True, she had enough money where she could have had her own private seating area on the train, but a lifetime of frugal living preventing her from indulging in such extravagance. Besides, who knew how long she would have Lucille de Chagny's money as her sole source of survival? Probably for at least the next month or so. And she would have to find a place to live and learn the city streets…

Christine's head spun suddenly at just what this journey meant. It scared her to do this thing. Yet she was more afraid to stay. She knew that she was going mad with her grief and memories. She needed a change. And she wanted to be alone, where no one would tell her what to do, where she could think with a clear head.

I have never been one for clear thinking, she said to herself. Otherwise, I would have made much better choices.

* * *

_I remember there was mist…swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake…_

Christine awoke with her senses back aright, although her recollections of the night before were frustratingly scarce. She looked about her strange surroundings in disbelief. So last night had been no surreal fantasy! She truly was surrounded by candles and darkness and mist!

And what of the man who had taken her this place? Yes, a man and no Angel. A man with a mask…a mask just like the rumored Phantom of the Opera…

Was the Angel and the Phantom and the man one and the same?

Arising from the large comforting bed, Christine searched for the source of the organ music. As she expected, she saw him there pounding away at his instrument and scribbling furiously at parchment, composing some sort of bizarre music. He never heard her sneak up behind him. She never felt her fingers near his ear as she yanked off the white mask.

What a fright she had at the horrible sight before her, of all of the mottled flesh, scars, jutting bone and yellow skin! So that was why he wore his mask! Not to disguise his identity, but to hide the ravages of his flesh!

Before she could even digest this information, the man raged at her in fury, calling her horrible names no one had ever called her before. Indeed, she had never seen anyone so violently angry ever! He raced about the room like a caged tiger, ready to strike at any moment. She was sure that he would murder her at any second for exposing his face.

Yet once the storm had passed, he fell to his knees before her, begging her forgiveness, pleading for her understanding. So pitiful was the sight of him, crouched down on the ground, clutching at his unmasked face. He knew he was ugly and monstrous, yet he so yearned for a beautiful angel. He yearned for her.

The strange man's desperate words tugged at her heart, but the desire she had felt for this man the night before was buried in confusion, fear and pity. There were too many shocking revelations. She no longer knew what to believe. He was no Angel of Music. He was no ghost, yet he wore the mask of the Phantom. The knowledge of his ravaged face no longer bothered her, yet his murderous rage terrified her.

With trembling hands, she handed him back his mask but was so full on conflicting emotions that she truly had no idea of what she should do or say next.

Apparently, the man also was at a loss for words as he clutched on to his mask as if it were his only hope for life before slipping it back onto his face.

If only she had done things differently…

Was there something she could have said to make things better between them?

Was there any way for her to prevent the bloodshed that was to follow?

* * *

As the sound of the snoring man across from her wrenched her back to the present, Christine realized her cheeks were wet with tears. Reaching for a handkerchief, she wiped her face, hoping that this was not a sign of an emotional waterfall to come. How many crying fits could one person suffer anyway? 

Clenching her fist tight, she thrust the past from her mind. She had to. What of the present? What of her future of freedom that she had staked out for herself?

Before she left, Mamma Valerius revealed that she believed Christine's mother was from England. If Christine truly thought that she would pursue her new life in London, perhaps she could spend some time trying to find out more about who her mother was. The idea was a comforting one. Christine knew very little about her mother. Her father would rarely speak of her as it pained him to do so for the memories of her death had been so traumatic on him.

Yes, she would research what she could about her mother, perhaps track down old relatives. She would seek employment as a singing tutor. And then once she was comfortably settled, Meg could come visit her in London.

Christine's spirits lifted at the thought.

She had already written her friend from the corps de ballet, informing her that she had left Raoul and had started off on her own in another country where she could make a fresh start. She was quite sure Meg would not reveal her hideabouts to her prior fiancé. Her friend could be trusted.

* * *

"Madame Giry!" the Vicomte de Chagny raged, his complexion as red as a lobster's as his voice booming throughout the ballet rehearsal space. "You of all people know more about the Phantom of the Opera than anyone else in this theater. After all the scandal and deaths that have occurred, it is amazing to me how you have even managed to keep your job here! And now you dare to tell me that you know nothing of my fiancee's disappearance!" 

"Don't speak that way to my Maman!" Meg interrupted.

Both Raoul and Madame Giry ordered Meg to stay out of it at the same time.

The rehearsing dancers seemed to scatter about, ceasing their practice as they began to whisper among themselves in small group. Oh, it had been so long since there had been so much fodder for delicious gossip! Ever since the Phantom died, things had been almost dull…

What a sight the usually impeccable Vicomte was, unkempt and rude and practically spitting venom!

"If my suspicions are correct and my fiancée is being held captive by that 'thing', I shall hold you responsible and see to it that you are arrested right beside him!"

"Monsieur," Madame Giry interrupted. "With all due respect, you seem to have lost your mind. The Phantom is dead. Everyone knows that. Now please leave here at once. As you can see, you have disrupted our rehearsal. Tonight is a new ballet sequence and my dancers must be thoroughly prepared."

"Oh, yes, of course," the Vicomte sniffed, ignoring Madame Giry's request. "There was an anonymous advertisement placed in the newspaper. Therefore, the rumors of his death must be true!"

"There is no need to be sarcastic, Monsieur," Madame Giry responded. "Even the police think him dead now."

"Well, if he is truly gone, then how do you explain Christine's disappearance? Tell me that! Surely you must know what has happened to her. After all, you always know about everything that goes on where Christine is concerned, do you not?"

"Perhaps she decided that she simply did not want to marry you after all, Monsieur."

The Vicomte paled as if Madame Giry had struck him. The hush in the room was a palpable one.

"If you were a man, I would call you out for that!"

Madame simply shrugged as Raoul de Chagny stormed off to find other victims around the theater to harass.

"Good parting shot, Maman," Meg raved with a pretty smile as she performed a pirouette in celebration. "That will show that insufferable cad!"

Antoinette Giry beamed in appreciation of her own handling with the insensible Vicomte. What right had he to come storming in here and upsetting everybody with his false accusations? Yet this was no example to set for her daughter.

"It is no laughing matter, Meg," she lectured sternly. "Christine has left her fiancée and apparently disappeared off the face of the earth. I have no idea what has become of the child, but I am certain that the Opera Ghost had nothing to do with it."

Lord knows that Erik would not be constantly drunk as a skunk if Christine were back in his life, Antoinette thought to herself sadly.

"Of course the Phantom had nothing to do with it!" Meg chirped, stretching her long limbed leg along the dance barre. "He is dead, Maman!"

"That is right, child." How she hated having to lie to her own daughter!

"And Christine is much better off now, anyway. She was horribly unhappy with that stuffy old Vicomte! I know!"

Antoinette felt her heart pound and the hairs at the back of her neck stand up with her daughter's revelation. No, she pleaded up to the heavens. Please don't let my daughter be mixed up in this!

"How do you know that, Meg?" she asked, trying to remain calm, even while gripping at her daughter's arm with a vice-like hold.

"She wrote me," her daughter volunteered with a cheerful whisper, practically jumping up and down with excitement. "I received the letter today!"

Antoinette could practically hear the swish of fabric out of the shadows in response to her daughter's answer. Oh, yes, the walls had ears today, especially regarding anything to do with Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny. She had to get Meg away from here. She refused to play a part with any more of Erik's schemes, even indirectly.

"Meg, perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere…"

"She said that life being looked down upon at the Vicomte's estate was no life for her."

"Meg, please…" Antoinette begged, but once her daughter had started, there was no stopping her.

"That she wanted to put the past behind her and was off to London to make a fresh start."

"Meg…"

"But you mustn't tell anyone, Maman, because Christine does not want Raoul de Chagny to come looking for her."

"Of course, I shall not breathe a word to him, but…"

"He is all very good looking and heroic and all that, but he is very bossy and has the meanest sisters. At least, that is what she said in her letter."

Antoinette tried to reach for her daughter's arms to firmly guide her out of the rehearsal wall and away from the eavesdropping Phantom, but it was too late.

"She thought she might start to privately tutor singers for the Savoy Theater. And she asked me if I might come visit her once she is settled. Oh, may I, Maman? I would so love to see London and Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle and London Bridge and…!"

Antoinette cursed. She had no doubt that Erik was lurking about somewhere and had greedily heard every word of her daughter's foolish admission. Yet, she tried not to be too hard on her daughter. After all, Meg believed that the Phantom was as dead as anyone else. She had no idea what she had just done.

Her innocent little daughter had just awakened a sleeping beast…

* * *

A/N: I have taken the "flashback" scene of Christine's taking off the mask from the ALW stage musical rather than the movie. It makes more sense to me that Erik would be doing something like composing and be caught by surprise by her actions. In the movie, he seems to just be waiting for her to come and take the mask off. I also like the moment in the stage musical when she hands the mask back to him. 


	6. Darkness Stirs

In the hidden corridor behind the dance rehearsal room mirror, Erik could hardly believe his ears. Christine had run away from the Vicomte! She had set off to London all by herself! There was to be no marriage!

His thoughts raced so that he barely heard Madame Giry and Meg scurry away.

The weather would be unpleasant in London, so foggy and damp, he mused. He was not sure that he would like it. It would be so unlike the cool evenings of Paris, the City of Light. Even though he spent much of his time in his underground lair, he had been partial to walks along the Seine in the wee hours of the night. And there was the matter of leaving his beloved Opera House which he had helped Monsieur Garnier build.

Stop it! He silently screamed at himself. It did not matter what the weather was like in England, the voice inside his head grumbled, for he had no intention of going there ever. And he should not have to miss his home for he would not leave it!

Christine had made her choice long ago.

So what if she had come to her senses at last and realized that the Vicomte was indeed a pompous bore? That was no reason for him to follow at her footsteps like a faithful puppy dog. Even a dog knows when he has been kicked!

Snorting in disgust, Erik realized he was in no mood to return to his home underground. He needed fresh air. The daylight was darkening into early evening. Perhaps it would be safe enough to retire to the roof of the Opera House where he could perch like a gargoyle and collect his thoughts.

Had the child gone mad setting off all alone on a journey to a foreign country? Did she not know how easily she could be taken advantage of? Did she even have any friends or family there to show her about? How could she? Her father was gone. She never knew of her mother who had died when she was just a babe. Her other guardian, Mamma Valerius, still resided in Paris as far as he knew. What could she be thinking going off like that?

Not that it was any of his concern. Why should he fret for her well being?

He should content himself with living out the rest of his days in stony stoicism, drowning in his bottles of wine and Elissa's purchased flesh. He was too old to go running after a frivolous woman who obviously cared nothing for him.

Why, right here on this very rooftop, she had insulted and betrayed him viciously!

Oh, could he ever forget the agony of hearing her sing those sweet words of love to that boy? What he would not have given to hear her sing to him that way!

But she would have none of him.

No matter that he had made her the most popular prima donna of Paris! No matter that he had wooed her with all of the devotion he could muster in his heart, preparing to offer his hand in marriage to her!

And the way she had spoken of him to her lover…the way she had emasculated him before that handsome prince…right here on this very rooftop…

* * *

_Can I ever escape from that face, so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in that darkness?_

Damn her for revealing his secrets to this man! It was not enough that she had to so rudely tear his mask off and humiliate him in the cruelest fashion. But now she had to tell her handsome boyfriend all about it. Damn her for her betrayal!

_Yet his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound. In that night, there was music in my mind. And with music, my soul began to soar and I heard as I'd never heard before…_

Erik's anger gave way to blind passion despite himself. He yearned to join her side, even if it meant hurling the handsome Vicomte to his death, and swear to her that he felt the same way. Nothing ever came as close to heaven as the sound of her voice when she sang the music that he had written for her. And that would only the beginning for them, if she would only give him a chance...

_Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world…those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore…_

"I never meant to scare you, Christine," he whispered in the night air. "I only meant to love you."

In her voice, he heard a sort of compassion that he was unfamiliar with. Even his own mother had never spoken about him with such tenderness. If she would only cast aside this young man, he would forgive her for her bout of weakness. He could forgive her anything.

Pleadingly, he called out to her but she only thought that it was her inflamed imagination.

Then that cursed boy began to make love to her, wooing her with his protection, promising her sunlight and daffodils. How skilled he was at playing the knight in shining armor! And how little he knew her, talking to her of daylight and freedom when Christine thrived on darkness and chains! How little she knew herself! What had she been before he had taken her under his wing? A sad-eyed chorus girl with no future, that's what! And she, being the naïve creature she was, fell for the Vicomte's act completely as she agreed to run off with him on his fancy horses to do God only knew what!

The thought of the blond hero and the brunette ingénue locked in each other's naked embrace incensed Erik to the point where he saw red...red the exact color of blood.

Once the loving couple had left, he finally gave in to the pain that was shriveling at his heart, crying out with the sounds of a hurt animal, unable to help but to give in to the deepest despair. Then his grief hardened into the worse sort of violent anger.

Yes, he had killed Joseph Buquet! And he would do it again! The man was following him about, spreading all sorts of rumors about him, and being a general nuisance. When he followed him about on the catwalk during the performance of _Il Muto_, that had been the last straw. He had been warned! Madame Giry, on his own instructions, had warned him to hold his tongue or face certain death. But the drunken fool ignored all caution and paid the consequences.

But perhaps it had also been more than that. Perhaps what Erik could not attain in love, he would attain in death. No matter. He never considered his crimes very deeply, feeling he owed humanity nothing.

Buquet had not been the first man he had killed and most assuredly would not be the last. For now, he felt like murdering all of Paris. He wanted to tear the Vicomte de Chagny limb from limb. He wanted to choke Christine to death. And then he would kill himself and lie by her side, united with her in death, as if they were Shakespeare's famous lovers, Romeo and Juliet.

If they wanted him to be a beast, he would be a beast! By God, he would show them all!

* * *

As Madame Giry proceeded to enter her small makeshift dressing room and office, she was grasped around the throat by a gloved hand.

"Erik!" she rasped. "I've been expecting you."

The masked face appeared out of the darkness.

"I want to know everything, Madame," he said coolly. "You are to let Meg go to London to visit Christine. You are to have her write to you. And you are to let me know of her whereabouts. Is that understood?"

"Please, Erik, no…" she begged.

The choking grip tightened. He could see in her eyes that she understood that this was no game. Despite their friendship, he would kill her if she did not obey. This was too important to him.

"Very well, you win," she whispered, barely able to breathe.

When he released her, Madame Giry hauled back and slapped him across the face repeatedly, knocking his mask across the room.

"You cur! I should never have rescued you!" she cursed. "I should have let you die in that gypsy cage like the dog that you are!"

"You may insult me all you like, Madame," he responded coldly as he retrieved his mask, placing it back on with all of the dignity that he could muster. "It is of no matter to me. Do not act as if you have received no benefit from my friendship. You and Meg have lived quite comfortably off of the regular portion of my salary that I allot you. Much more than you would receive as a dance instructor, is it not?"

Madame Giry did not lower herself to answer him.

"Antoinette," he coaxed in soft tones. "There is no need for our friendship to deteriorate over this matter. You know I would never harm Meg. She is a sweet little girl, destined to be an Empress!"

"It is not Meg that I am concerned about," she answered sharply. "And you know it!"

"I shall await your news, Madame," he responded, blithely ignoring her comments about Christine before kissing her hand with mocking chivalry.

Then he departed quickly, for he had many affairs to put in order before his trip.

Yes, he would go to London, despite all reason. No, he was not trying to win Christine back again. He would not force her to his will. He knew where he was not wanted. Yet he could not help himself but to watch over her. It was second nature to him now after having played her guardian angel for so long. That was all that he wanted, just to make sure that she was safe.

Perhaps if he told himself the lie enough times, he would believe it.

Erik met with Elissa one last time, not to engage in a lustful bout, but to say goodbye. She was awarded for her troubles with a large amount of money which would last her for several months until she could find a more suitable occupation. Thankfully, there were no tears or moaning at his departure on her part. While Elissa had been a sweet young girl who had made a man out of him, he preferred to pretend that she had never existed.

Nadir, on the other hand, was harder to deal with.

"Do you mean to tell me you are going to leave this opera house that you love so?" he asked incredulously. "And all for a woman!"

"Nadir," Erik shrugged with indifference. "My home is gone anyway. The best of my furnishings were torn apart by that mob. This place was designed to be my sanctuary from the cruelty of the human race. Now in this small bunker that I have eked out for myself, it is not better than a prison. My home here is no more."

"But to leave Paris!"

"Paris is just another place to me," he answered. "I have no great love of the city. Not any more."

"If I had known you were going to react in such a dramatic fashion, I never would have told you about Raoul de Chagny at all! And all because I could not bear to see you committing slow suicide at the bottom of a bottle. But to pursue her to this extent," Nadir shook his head. "She is bad for you, my friend."

"Do I stick my nose into your love affairs, Nadir?"

"I have no love affairs," Nadir answered wryly.

"Well, that is your misfortune. I would thank you to stay out of mine."

"It's your funeral," his friend quipped.

"But I'm already dead, my friend! HA HA HA HA!"

At Erik's maniacal laughter, Nadir huddled down into a miserable mass. Apparently, this news of Christine had made his friend even more insane than he already was.

Yet despite everything, Erik felt a glimmer of hope arise. At least now, he had something to do when he would wake up. There was a purpose in life again.

All he had to do was wait.


	7. Strange New World

**One month later...**

Little Meg Giry wandered the streets of London. As she passed Trafalgar Square, she made her way towards the small side street where the boarding house was located. Again, she referred to her map. Yes, this must be the correct address.

While London was not nearly as lovely as Paris, Meg found that she liked the city a great deal. Dressed in a pink morning suit with her blonde hair artfully sculpted in a pretty upsweep, the ballerina cheerfully traipsed about the streets, not unaware that many a young man was giving her the eye. An Englishman seemed to be every bit as amorous as an average Frenchman, she noted with amusement.

Again, she pondered with disbelief how her mother could have allowed her to visit Christine without a chaperone. It was so unlike her to be so careless where her daughter was concerned. In fact, her mother had been acting quite oddly as of late all together, almost as secretive and quiet as she had been during those days of the Opera Ghost. It was a little unsettling. Yet Meg did nothing to hint of her mother's carelessness lest she change her mind or even worse decide to come along. Thus she cheerfully enjoyed the sights of the city and the prospect of visiting her friend all to herself without being under the eye of a stern parent.

Coming upon the rather dull looking boarding house, Meg wrinkled her nose. Even if Christine was fortunate enough to live by herself, it was quite a come down from the Paris Opera House. Even the dormitories were nicer than this ramshackle building. Making her way up the dark staircase, she found the correct room number, tentatively knocking on the door.

After a few moments, her friend answered.

Meg almost gasped for she barely recognized Christine Daae. The friend that she had been so close with only a few months ago now looked painfully thin and worn. Her tired eyes had circles underneath them. Dressed soberly in a black plain gown with her dark hair tied up in a knot, she carried little resemblance to the colorful diva she had been in her days when she was engaged to the Vicomte. She no longer seemed a young girl with laughing eyes but a sober woman with much sadness in her expression.

"Christine!" Meg cried out, attempting to sound jubilant.

"Meg!" Christine nodded, reaching out to embrace her.

"My, Christine, you look so...grown up." Dowdy was the word that Meg really wanted to say. Was this what a month of living in London would do to a girl?

Christine smiled wanly. "I suppose this is my effort to look like a stern singing master. My pupils want to think that I am older than they are, although truth be told, I think most of my students are older than I am. Besides, being a young lady living alone, I do not wish to draw any unnecessary attention to myself. But I've forgotten all of my manners. Please come in and sit."

"So things are going well for you then with your teaching?"

"Yes," Christine explained as she straightened the room a bit as she motioned for Meg to sit down upon a comfortable looking settee in a floral print. "My adjustment has not been as harrowing as I had feared. I only had to put up a few small notices in the different opera houses and music schools. Already, I have enough students to give me a steady income. I'm afraid my notoriety has even crossed over to England as all of the time I am dodging embarrassing questions about my past in the Opera Populaire. While I tried to be discreet, word travels and the rumors are already flying fast and furious. I should make it a stipulation for none of my pupils to delve into my personal life, I suppose. Still, if my reputation is what gets them to come to see me, I suppose that is a start. And once I save enough money, I shall put an ad in the newspaper. Then I shall really succeed."

Meg looked about curiously at Christine's new home. Her living space consisted of two rooms: a sitting room with a small piano serving as the dominating piece of furniture, and another room off to the side which Meg assumed was her bedroom. She had no kitchen for she was to take her meals with the other boarders in the main dining room on the first floor. Meg knew that from Christine's letters.

Christine lived a Spartan existence, even more so than she did in her days in the corps de ballet. In the old days, Christine's room would be full of whatever inexpensive knickknacks she could collect along with small stuffed dolls and toys, almost the room of a little girl. Now all of those youthful extravagances were gone. There were a few tasteful paintings of the London skyline, a small portrait of her father smiling as he played the violin, and simple white lace curtains. Along the walls were a few bookcases filled with sheet music and books.

"My goodness, Christine, you've been reading quite a lot while you've been away."

For the first time since she arrived, Meg saw her friend give a hint of a laugh.

"Most of them are not mine," she admitted. "I was fortunate enough to find this particular room already furnished with the piano, the music and the books. Apparently, an elderly musician used to live here before I came along. When he died, he had all of this remaining and no relatives to collect the items. The landlady of the boarding house said that I could sell them if I wished for she had no use for them. But I decided to keep them for myself. It makes it a little more comfortable; and I have an endless supply of reading material as you can see."

Christine caressed a book lying on top of her piano.

"I've even discovered the popular Brontë sisters," she revealed. "Have you ever read _Wuthering Heights_? It's really very good."

"You know I never read much, Christine," Meg chided. "Life is too short to have your nose stuck in a book!"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I've been rather enjoying living a quiet life for a change."

"But don't you miss all the glamour of the stage? All of the costumes and makeup? The wild applause of the audience?"

"Not so much. Should I?"

"I don't know," Meg shrugged. "Perhaps I would say anything to make you come back to Paris. But honestly, it does seem to me that teaching others to sing is a poor substitute for actually performing."

"Oh, no!" Christine answered quickly, her eyes lighting up. "I have the knowledge that those singers need so desperately. It is quite rewarding to see them learn and accomplish their goals. It makes me feel useful. In fact, when I'm teaching, I feel so at peace. And it was almost as if he were still here..."

There was such a wistful expression in Christine's eyes. She looked as if she were far away.

Meg wrinkled her brow with confusion.

"Who do you mean? Your father?" she asked.

"Oh," Christine started, hesitantly. "Yes."

"Well, it is certainly different than attending all of those fancy affairs with the Vicomte!" Meg joked in an effort to lighten the mood. Then suddenly, she shot a hand over her mouth. "Oh, damnation!" she cursed. "Here I swore I would not mention his name to you while I was here, and then I have to bring him up within the first ten minutes! I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be," Christine smiled. "There is no sense in pretending that the past didn't happen." With a plaintive sigh, she sat down at the piano and began to play a tune. Meg did not know it but it sounded terribly depressing.

Meg cursed herself yet again for her big mouth.

"Do you think that you will ever go back to him?" Meg asked curiously.

"Who?"

"Raoul, of course," she laughed nervously.

"No, Meg," Christine shook her head as she continued to play. "I am quite sure that I shall not. It wasn't meant to be."

How different Christine looked as she spoke of Raoul now! It made Meg sad to contemplate it. Why, she could still remember how the couple had looked at the Masquerade Gala several months ago. Dressed in a pink glittery dress with a blue velvet overthrow, Christine looked like a queen in her sparkling tiara. And the Vicomte had been quite dashing as always. They had waltzed about gaily, laughing as they whirled about. Meg recalled that vividly as she had been quite jealous actually of Christine's good fortune to have such a handsome date at the event and no bothersome mother along to spoil her fun.

But then the party had come to an abrupt end...when Red Death made his appearance...

* * *

_Why so silent, good Monsieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?_

The large mocking skeleton swathed in red silks and velvet descended the ornate staircase with a threatening gait, glaring at all of the guests about the party. There seemed little human about him at all, except a large pair of beautifully shaped hands that gestured dramatically as he spoke. With evil glee, he made his threats, promising destruction on them all if they did not perform his opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_, with Christine as the lead.

Oh, how well Meg recalled the event as if it were yesterday! Her heart had beat so fast as the sight of the infamous Opera Ghost. She wanted to scream. She yearned to faint. But all she could do was watch with intense fascination as the Phantom of the Opera pointed towards Christine, gesturing her to come to him. Like a magnet, her friend had walked towards him, unable to resist her strong attraction towards him. All of the room was captivated by the strange couple as they neared each other. Even with his commanding presence creating such fear, his eyes seemed eerily desperate as he looked at her friend. Although he stood unmoving, it seemed as if he were really on his knees begging for her to come back to him.

Then violently, he snarled and ripped off Christine's necklace holding the engagement ring of the Vicomte.

_Your chains are still mine! You belong to me!_

* * *

And so Christine did belong to him, Meg thought. If not then at the Gala, then she certainly did now for she almost seemed to be becoming just like her Angel. Shut away in her quiet dark room, teaching people how to sing, playing sad songs on her piano, wearing black...

Although Meg had promised her mother that she would not mention the Phantom to Christine, she was unable to resist. And besides what was the point? She was obviously thinking on him right now.

"You miss him, don't you, Christine? The Phantom, I mean..."

Abruptly, she stopped playing the melody.

"He is with me all of the time," she confessed softly. Although Meg could not see her face, seated as she was upon the settee, she could clearly hear the pain in Christine's voice. "More so than when I thought he was my Angel of Music. I can't seem to forget him. Ever since I read of his death, he has haunted me."

"It wasn't your fault, Christine. He was mad!"

"Even so, I could have..." But then Christine shook her head, wiping tears from her eyes. "I don't know. It was all so complicated."

"You cared for him, didn't you?"

"Oh, Meg," Christine shook her head as she contemplated the bold question. "I don't know. Sometimes, I felt like he knew me better than anyone else on this earth. Then other times I think that I was simply trying to make him into the father that I no longer had. I am never sure, you see? For a time, before everything went wrong, he was my friend and my teacher. And he had been so dear to me. I had been horribly alone when he had come into my life. Why, Mamma Valerius was the only person who would have known if I'd lived or died." Then with a quick glance at Meg, she added, "Of course, we were not friends yet."

"I know," Meg responded with a nod.

"But then when I found out the truth, everything changed. I saw him as a man and not as some ethereal angel. Things became so confused." She sobbed slightly as she kept talking. "Suddenly he was not who I thought he was. Yet I knew he wanted me as a man wants a woman. And I was scared of him."

"Because of his face?"

"No," Christine shook her head fiercely. "He always thought so, but that was not true. Maybe at first, his face startled me, but it was not that. And back then, I had no idea that he was capable of committing murder. It was not that either. Maybe it was because he seemed to need me so much. He was after my very soul. And I was only a woman." Then Christine stopped with a faint laugh. "No, not even that. I was a girl. Just a young foolish girl who knew nothing of life but music and grief. And I was angry at him for having deceived me and...if I could only go back, I would do so many things differently..."

"Would you, Christine?" Meg asked. "It is easy to say that now, but Maman says hindsight is the most perfect vision of all."

"Perhaps your Maman is right," she nodded. "Madame Giry is a wise soul."

"I shouldn't have mentioned him, Christine," Meg apologized. "I did not mean to make you sad. My mother always did say that I had the curiosity of a cat. More sage words from the 'wise soul'."

Reaching for a handkerchief, Christine delicately blew her nose.

"Nonetheless, by being here and teaching, I do feel better. And I know I did the right thing by coming here."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"Because I am holding on to all of the lessons that my Angel taught me. And I practice them every day when I teach my students. And by holding on to his knowledge, I am holding on to a piece of him. And by teaching his knowledge to others, he still lives on. Does that make any sense?"

"Yes, Christine," Meg said softly, almost wanting to cry herself. "I think it's nice. He would be so pleased."

"No," Christine chuckled as she shook her head. "I'm sure he would berate me most viciously for being such a melancholy fool if he were here now! And so I am, I suppose."

"Oh, I don't know," Meg giggled. "I think all of the little ballet girls were a little smitten with the Phantom."

"They were not!"

"Were so!" Meg argued childishly with a grin. "Even if he was ugly and scary, he was terribly exciting! The place is a horrid bore now that he's gone. I'll wager even old Carlotta misses him!"

There was a glint of amusement in Christine's eyes.

"Somehow I doubt that," she responded to her friend's jest.

"And some of the most attractive men are ugly. Why, just think about that statue of Horatio Nelson at Trafalgar Square!" Meg continued. "I know it may sound terribly unpatriotic of me to say so, being from France and all, but he was a dashing man too! Much more interesting than old Napoleon Bonaparte! And Nelson only had one eye! And a bad leg! Or was it a bad arm? I don't remember which. But in any event, Emma Hamilton must have thought he was the cat's meow to carry on with him so."

"Meg, you're horrible!" Christine broke down in giggles.

Meg was glad to see her friend really laugh. For a second, she could almost pretend they were back in the good old days.

"Oh, Meg! I have missed you so!" Christine laughed as she rose up from the piano bench and hugged her friend. "Come. Let us go out for some tea. As long as you are here with me, the first thing you must know is that all of the rumors about the English and their great love of tea are true! There's a quaint little shop right across the street."

The two women left the boarding house and walked through the city streets of London, neither of them noticing the shrouded shadow following their path.


	8. Feel It, Hear It

On the street across from the boarding house, Erik could not hold back a heartfelt gasp as he saw Christine leave the building accompanied by Meg. Oh, he felt as if his heart were being ripped right out of his chest at the very sight of her! Even dressed as she was in that horribly dull black frock, she was still every bit as lovely as she had been in the wedding dress that he had made especially for her. But all was not well with his Angel. He could plainly see, even from across the street, that she looked thin and tired and pale. Obviously, she was not taking very good care of herself.

Having a taste of her within his sight again, he was suddenly starving for more. Along the side street, he followed the women for as long as he dared until at last they entered a tea shop. The store was small, too small for him to wander about unnoticed. He had no choice but to walk away from her for now.

Yet perhaps he could make good use of the time while she was away.

Feeling energized, Erik returned back to the boarding house and crept along the dark gas lit corridors with great curiosity. The place seemed so dismal that it made his old home a paradise in comparison. How could she stand to live this way? She gave up a life in the Vicomte's chateau for this?

Erik stopped by Christine's room on the third floor. Closing his eyes, he could even take in the scent of her familiar perfume. Just that small familiarity was enough to make his heart race.

Climbing up another flight of stairs, he observed the room directly above her own. This would be a perfect place to make his new home! He would be on the top floor, thus insuring as much privacy as possible in an establishment such as this. She would be within watching distance. But best of all, he would be able to hear Christine sing through the thin walls. Even if he spent the rest of his days merely watching over her, never making his presence known, he would at least have that.

When the doorknob of the room began to rattle, Erik quickly scurried around a corner by the stairway. An elderly man exited, apparently to throw out some garbage. It was fortunate that the tenant was an old man, very much so for if he were to meet with an 'unfortunate accident', the police would probably not look into the matter too thoroughly. Grasping onto his lasso, he prepared to strike like a cobra. But, no, that would leave a suspicious mark. But perhaps with finesse, he could get a good chokehold on that frail throat and not even leave as much as a bruise. The deed would not take much effort.

But for something was holding him back. Inexplicably, he could not bring himself to go through with killing the man.

"Monsieur," he approached the tenant from out of the darkness.

So scared was the older man of the sudden appearance of the masked apparition that Erik halfway hoped the man would die of a heart attack and save him further trouble of negotiations.

"Who are you?" the balding man asked with wide blue eyes. "What do you want?"

"I want your room," Erik answered simply. "I am willing to pay you for it, a good deal more than it is worth."

The man shook his head as if he were hearing things.

"Good lord, man! You must be daft!"

"Oh, that is true," Erik replied with a smirk. "Most definitely so." Before the old man started to do something foolish like scream for help, he continued to explain. "Please do not be afraid of the mask, Monsieur. You see, I am a wealthy man, always having to fight off crazy old ladies trying to shove their marriageable young daughters in my face." He fought to hold back a snicker at his wicked lie. "I value my solitude and privacy, you see. Thus, I wear this mask to avoid being recognized."

"A millionaire, eh?" While the man was skeptical, he looked Erik up and down, recognizing fancy clothes when he saw them. "I can't say that I blame you, lad. Women can be a blasted nuisance at times! I know! I was a bit of a ladies' man myself back in the day."

"Indeed?" Erik asked, attempting to appear sincerely interested. "At any rate," he continued. "I should very much like to rent this flat from you."

"Well, I'm not in charge of this boarding house. You'll want to speak to Mildred about that."

"Mildred?"

"Aye, Mildred Hobbes. She's the lady who runs the place."

"I really don't care to deal with bothersome formalities," Erik shrugged, reaching into the lining of his coat and pulling out a large wad of bills. "We are quite capable of making a bargain between ourselves as gentlemen, are we not?"

The man started to shake his head, yet he glared at the money, almost drooling.

"The offer is tempting, Mister, but I'm really too old to be moving right now."

"Surely you would like to settle down somewhere where you could be more comfortable. Climbing up and down four flights of stairs every day just to go out of doors must be quite wearing on you, Monsieur...?"

"Mr. Tomkins," the man answered, considering with a nod. "Well, yes, I suppose that it is awfully rough going on my old knees."

"I imagine that with the sum of money I just gave you, you would be able to find some apartment on the first floor where you should never have to suffer with your aches and pains again."

"That would be very pleasant, very nice, oh, yes..."

"So we have a bargain?"

"Wait a minute now! I did not agree to anything," Tomkins said quickly, obviously still suspicious. "If you're as rich as you claim, why are you interested in this old dump?"

Erik became increasingly annoyed. He really didn't want to fool with dodging this man's invasive questions. Conscience be damned, he should just killed the man and be done with it. Really, it would have been so much easier in the long run.

"Monsieur. Tomkins, you try my patience!" he snapped. "Do you want the money or not?"

"Right," the man nodded, not needing to be told out loud to mind his own business. "Very well then. I suppose I'd be crazy if I refused."

"A pleasure doing business with you, sir. How soon do you think you should be able to leave here?"

"In a week."

A week, Erik thought dejectedly. A whole week without being near to Christine. He definitely should have just killed the man. Still he had thought that he would never see his pretty diva ever again. What was a week compared to eternity?

"Very well."

Erik tipped his black fedora and set about on his way to find an inn to stay at in the meantime.

Odd, he mused again, about his sudden sense of sentimentality about life and death. He had never had a conscience before about such matters. Maybe he simply wanted a fresh start in this foreign land.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Erik wandered about the city, learning the streets of London. He felt a bit intimidated by the new city, although he was not sure why. After all, if he could survive the barbaric country of Persia, England should be...well, for lack of a better phrase, a tea party. Despite his fast held belief that he was his own creature, owing loyalty to no God, country or religion, he found that he had a healthy contempt of the English, although he had never considered himself much of a patriotic Frenchman. For the life of him, he did not understand why Christine had run here of all places.

He had found a nice small inn with an innkeeper who could easily be bribed and not ask any questions. Yet, he did not sleep well at all. It had been so long since he had lived in a normal room with normal temperatures. He had become so accustomed to the dampness and chill of the catacombs that comfort almost seemed to hurt. And he was tired, too. Damned tired. In the throes of creativity, he had been known in the past to stay up well beyond forty eight hours, scribbling away at his parchment as the ideas flowed. But without such motivation, he was beginning to feel exhausted more easily.

Also, he was constantly shaking and suffering headaches in his attempt to give up alcohol. If he were seriously going to watch over Christine, it would not do for him to be in a drunken stupor. That is precisely when some young puppy like the Vicomte might try to take advantage of her. No, he had to be sober and on his guard. Even if she tried to disguise herself as an old maid schoolteacher, she was still a damned attractive woman underneath it all.

Finally, the end of the week arrived at last.

Mr. Tomkins informed Erik that he had left the large pieces of furniture for him if he wanted them. He didn't care to go to the expense of keeping the shoddy old pieces. Observing the bed and bookcases left behind, Erik agreed to keep them.

Everything seemed satisfactory except for one thing...

The room was entirely too bright for Erik's taste. Before Mr. Tomkins left, Erik paid him a little extra to obtain some large fabric rolls of black velvet and candles for him. Draping the cloth along the windows, he felt a little better. The sunlight had burned at his pale skin and hurt his eyes. Even in the foggy London weather, the daylight was still unbearable to him.

With that, he bid Mr. Tomkins adieu.

"And if Mildred starts spitting at you like a wildcat, you're on your own, fellow!"

"I shall take it under advisement, Monsieur Tomkins."

With the room comfortably darkened, he proceeded to place the candles all about. Even gas lighting was a bit too modern for his taste. And the bed would be a problem. The mattress was not hard enough. In fact, he truly yearned for the security of his nice hard coffin. To his surprise, he realized he was becoming horribly homesick. If he only had his pipe organ with him or his violin...something to keep him occupied. He made a note to himself that after he had slept, he would brave the daytime to purchase a violin in the morning. After all, while he would look odd in his mask, how many people in this country had ever even heard of the Phantom of the Opera?

Shaking his head despondently, he sat down on the bed, removed his mask, and wondered if he had not made a horribly foolish mistake by coming here. He had lived underground in the dark for so long he really did not know how he was going to manage now. He was not sure he liked this city of London at all. In fact, he suspected that he rather hated the place.

And as for Christine...

If she knew he was here, she would run as far away as she could. She did not need or want his protection. Indeed, she probably was quite happy to think him dead. Why could he not just leave her be? Why did he keep wishing for what he could never have? Was this whole adventure just opening up the old wounds that so badly needed to heal?

Like a bolt from the blue heavens, the dulcet tones of Christine resounded from the floor below. He recognized her melody at once as the aria from _Il Muto. _Covering his mouth to keep from crying out in sweet agony, Erik closed his eyes as he let the adored voice wash over him. He undressed and reclined back upon the bed. In the chill of his previous underground home, he almost always wore clothing whenever possible, even during Elissa's visits. He was unaccustomed to feeling so deliciously free with all of his clothes off. Suddenly, the bed had become a lot more comfortable now. In fact, the feel of the fabric against his bare skin was almost erotic. The covers were warm and soft, just like Christine would be if she were in his arms.

"Oh, Christine..." he sighed with pleasure, rolling onto his stomach. "Christine..."

Even though he was far away from Paris, just hearing his darling Christine made him feel as if he had come home from a long journey. And as if she were the mother he never had, she sang him softly into a deep sleep.


	9. Music Shall Surround You

"Oh!" The pretty young russet-haired girl stamped her foot with disgust. "I shall never get that high note, Miss Daae! Never!"

"Do not be so hard on yourself, Geraldine," Christine advised. "You must concentrate. That is all."

Christine believed that encouragement was the best policy with teaching. She did not wish to be disagreeable to her students. Indeed, since she was being paid to be a private tutor, it was impractical to discourage her pupils with too many harsh criticisms. Too often, she had burgeoning talents fizzle out from cruelty. Often, the school of thought was that such treatment toughened these singers up for the hardships of a career on the stage. She did not wish to engage in such methods. These people were trusting her to help them learn, not to feel badly about themselves. They needed a safe environment where they could make mistakes. Her only demand was that her students practice their lessons and make an effort to progress. Otherwise, she felt like she was wasting their time and stealing their money.

As it was, Geraldine Chapman was one of her best students. Christine had no doubt that she would make headway in her career soon. She just needed to stop pacing a hole through her already beaten up rug on the living room floor and develop a little confidence in herself.

Once more, Geraldine went through the song as Christine accompanied her on the piano, but this attempt was even more of a hopeless cause.

"Pardon me for cursing, Miss Daae, but it is that blasted violin!" the girl raged. "Whoever is upstairs has been playing it incessantly ever since I arrived, making it very hard to focus. Can't you make that person stop?"

Christine knew Geraldine was right. Her neighbor upstairs, Mr. Tomkins, had been playing the violin for hours on end several days in a row now. She had no idea he was so musically inclined. Truth be told, she rather liked being surrounded by the music all of the time, but she could see how her pupils were getting frustrated. She would have to speak to him about it, but she did not want to risk a confrontation with the man while she was teaching. She would do it after the next appointment was through.

"Consider this a good exercise for concentration, Geraldine," she advised. "When you are on stage, there are a million things that could go wrong. Rarely will a production go seamlessly every night. You must be able to focus with all of the sharpness of a needle, even if you are in a duet with a drunkard or the stage lights are too bright. The stronger your ability to drive distraction out of your mind, the better off you are. Now let us try again..."

The rest of the lesson went exceedingly well.

Christine's pleasure was short lived when her next appointment, Mr. Robert Jamison, arrived. Although she prided herself on her patience, she had to admit that he was perhaps the hardest student she had to teach. Although he always tried hard, he was hopelessly inadequate vocally. Also, it had been foolish of her to give him the particular piece that he was working on. The song had been one which her Angel used to sing to her frequently. Whenever Robert would sing, she would hear another voice inside her mind, one of such purity and strength that it took her breath away. She supposed that she would never be able to truly forget that voice. Trying not to give in to remorse, she tried to follow her own advice and concentrate on Robert's lesson until it was mercifully over.

For a while, she rested back on the settee, covering her hands with her eyes. Ever since Meg had left to go back to Paris, Christine had been driving herself nonstop, taking as many pupils as she could. She needed the extra fees to enable her to go to Perros to make a visit to her father's grave. Even with all of the changes in her life, she did not intend to miss her annual sojourn to the cemetery on the anniversary of his death.

As the music flowed about her, she suddenly remembered her mission regarding her neighbor upstairs. She moaned in annoyance. She really did not care to have to ask him to stop playing as she was in no mood to get into a tense conversation of any kind. Unfortunately, she had no choice. Resolutely, she climbed up the stairs to the hallway on the fourth floor.

"Mr. Tomkins?" she asked, softly knocking on his door.

The violin playing abruptly stopped.

"Mr. Tomkins, it is Miss Daae. Remember me? I live underneath you on the third floor."

A gruff low voice answered her.

"Yes, child. What is it that you want?"

Well, really, the man could be polite enough to open his own door like a gentleman!

"I hate to ask this of you, but..."

Oh, this was maddening!

"Sir, do you think you could open the door? I feel like a silly fool talking to the doorknob!"

Christine heard some scuffling about and even some profanities behind Mr. Tomkin's door before it cracked open by a hair. She could see no sign of a person in the room through the slight opening.

"I am so sorry, my dear," the voice rasped. "But I am very ill and quite contagious. I would hate to infect such a comely young girl with my horrid disease."

"Oh," Christine started with dismay. Mr. Tomkins was elderly and such a horrid illness could prove quite fatal. The neighbor had always kept to himself a lot and probably would not even fetch a doctor, no matter how badly he might need one. "Should I fetch a doctor for you, sir? Should I send for Miss Hobbes?"

"No, no...heavens, no. It is not as bad as all that. What did you wish to ask of me, my dear?"

"It is a matter of your violin playing, sir," Christine continued, feeling rather petty making her request when the man was so sick. "You see, I teach opera singers for a living. And I am afraid that your violin is throwing off their pitch and rhythm. I hate to ask this of you, but would it be possible for you to refrain from playing while I teach? If you like, I could furnish you with my schedule of appointments and..."

"I SHALL PLAY WHENEVER I WISH!" the man bellowed.

The violence of the voice caused Christine to nearly jump out of her skin. She had no idea that Mr. Tomkins had such a surly temperament. Odd that he could roar so when he had been so hoarse just a few seconds earlier. And there was something about the timbre of that voice which reminded her of something...but she couldn't quite place it.

"Please, Mr. Tomkins," Christine begged. "You mustn't distress yourself so when you are ill. Your playing is quite lovely. In fact, when I am alone, I love to listen to your violin playing. It reminds me a bit of my father."

"Indeed?" The voice softened.

"Oh, yes. He too was a very talented violinist. He passed away when I was a young girl, you see, and whenever I think of him, I...but I am rambling on. Forgive me."

"It is quite all right, my dear."

"I would not dream of asking you to cease playing for myself. I am horribly sorry to be a nuisance, but my students are my only source of income that I have and..."

"Very well, Chr...Miss Daae. If you would be so kind as to place your schedule underneath the door, I shall do my best to oblige you."

"Oh, thank you so much for your understanding, Mr. Tomkins!" Christine enthused. "Is there anything I can do for you to make up for such an inconvenience? Shall I make you some hot tea? Perhaps it would soothe your throat."

"No, that will not be...actually, yes, yes, I would love some tea."

"I shall put the kettle on straight away," Christine answered. "Oh, and when you feel up to it, Mr. Tomkins, I should so love to hear that requiem again."

"That morbid piece?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Even in its melancholy, it is so beautiful. And it reminds me..."

"...of your father?"

"Yes," she answered, holding back a nervous chuckle. "You're so understanding, Mr. Tomkins. I shall go make that tea now."

As Christine made the tea, she could hear Mr. Tomkins playing her requested requiem though the thin walls. He must not have been too irritated with her for he played the music so eloquently that she wanted to weep. Even her father would have been impressed with Mr. Tomkins. Today she seemed to especially miss his calm presence in her life. How she wished that she could once more see the man and not just the cold family crypt...

At least, her visit to his grave this year would be less eventful than it had been the last time...

* * *

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing...her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music...her father promised her...her father promised her..._

In the early chill of the winter morning, Christine crept out of her dormitory at the Paris Opera House to make her visit to her father's grave. She needed him more than ever for her heart felt wrenched into pieces. Raoul was pressuring her to help him entrap the Phantom in his own opera. At first, she refused strongly, but he appealed to her conscience. The man was a murderer, a tragic figure, but a killer nonetheless. She had to help the police arrest him. Did she not want to be happy with him? Did she not want to be free of her tormentor?

Yet, at night, Christine was tormented with images of her masked Angel shot and bleeding at her feet on the stage of the Opera Populaire. She envisioned him chained up and cursing at her as the police dragged him away. He would escape his prison (for what jail could ever hold him?) and he would find her and kill her for her betrayal. She could even imagine him singing to her, once again leading her senses to that strange passionate state, even as the life was choked out of her body by his lasso. She prayed every day for a miracle to happen that would prevent her from having to take part in the plot. But the time was ever approaching nearer. As of yet, there had been no miracle. Desperately, she escaped to her father's grave, hopelessly seeking comfort from the cold stone in the cemetery. If only she could find an answer...if only she could stop grieving for what she could never have...if only she could make peace with the past...

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless...yearning for my guidance..._

Of course, the mysterious man was here. She had blindly trusted him so much when he had been her teacher, confiding in him about her visits to her father, even telling him the date of his death. How obsessed he must have been with her even then to remember that date to this day! She shivered, not from the cold, but from fear. Even so, his unearthly voice was such a comfort to her in her time of confusion and grief. Beyond all reason, she needed more of him...more of that voice...as she pleaded with her Angel to keep singing to her.

_Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far reaching gaze..._

Christine felt herself melting once more under his spell, just like she had on the night when he first took her down to his home underground. This time, she almost physically felt her control being wrested away from her. Not only had her mind been swept clean of all of her doubts and fears, but her body was so languid that she was almost paralyzed. Yet again, her senses reacted in the mysterious fashion that she did not understand. Her breasts throbbed while she felt soaked with that embarrassing wetness between her legs. And all she could think of was how much she wanted to be near her Angel. She wanted to be as close to him as two people could possibly be. No matter that he was a murderer. No matter that he was insane. No matter that he had lied to her, claiming to be a heavenly being. All that mattered was this primal need so intense that it was torture.

Singing her worship of him, she began to walk towards the presence. This was true beauty. This was right. She trembled no longer from the cold but from the powerful desire overtaking her.

"Christine!" Raoul's voice broke her trance like a bucket of ice water.

As her body adjusted to normal existence, she was shocked to see the Phantom hurling what seemed to be balls of fire at her fiancé. Shielding Raoul with her body, she convinced him to leave for her sake.

_DON'T GO!_ _So be it! Now let it be war upon you both!_

The Phantom's threats echoed in Christine's head as she made her escape with Raoul. As her fiancé swept her upon his steed, racing like a demon back to Paris, Christine felt more mournful than ever. Of course, she had to help to entrap him. If she did not, how would she live with herself? How many more people would be his victims?

Yet her heart broke with the cold knowledge...

Why must her Angel kill? Why must he make her hate him?

* * *

The tears flowed freely down Christine's cheeks as she set the tea kettle and a tea cup upon the copper tray. Would it ever stop hurting? Would the pain of the past never go away?

"Here you are, Mr. Tomkins..." She could hear the tears in her voice as she placed the tray down on the floor beside the closed door. Dear Lord, she sounded as wretched as she felt.

"Miss Daae?" the deep voice rasped. "You sound rather upset. Are you ill?"

"I shall be all right, Mr. Tomkins," she answered with a small sniffle, touched as he sounded sincerely concerned for her. "I suppose I am just a bit blue today. It is sweet of you to ask."

"No doubt it was that mournful tune I played for you. How about something sweeter? Would you like a lullaby, perhaps?"

"I am a bit old for that now," she giggled through her tears. "But if you wish to play such, I shall listen."

As the strains of _London Bridge_ seeped through the walls of the dark corridors, Christine smiled. Mr. Tomkins actually seemed rather nice. Perhaps they could have tea together once he had recovered from his illness. It would be a comfort to have at least one friend in this new lonely life that she had made for herself.


	10. Draw Back in Fear

Relaxing with the warm cup of tea, Erik replayed the conversation in his mind with Christine over and over again. Just being near her...just hearing her sweet voice once more made this stay in this strange new land worthwhile for him. How he had missed her! Even drinking from one of her own teacups was a slice of heaven, if he believed in such a place. How he wished he could be this cup which knew the feel of her lips every day!

Then he cursed himself for being a fool. Since when did he develop such a poetic soul? And he did not even have the excuse of alcohol to justify such ridiculous musings!

After all, he was not here to win her back. He was only here to watch over the silly girl who had run off all on her own, determined to get into all sorts of trouble.

And what on earth was he going to do with himself if he couldn't play his violin? He could sleep during the hours of the voice lessons, but then what would he do if he was up in the middle of the night? As odd as it was for him, he needed to actually be awake in the daytime and sleep at night. If he was scuffling around or playing music in the wee hours of the morning, he would only draw suspicion. Perhaps he should peruse the local bookstores and purchase some reading material. All he knew was that his plan was already becoming much more complicated than he had expected.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, startling him so that he nearly spilled his tea.

Was it Christine again? He hated how his heart raced with excitement at the thought.

"Yes?" he asked gruffly, disguising his voice as he opened the door a crack. Although he intended not to be seen, he placed his mask on just in case.

"See 'ere, Tomkins! What do you think you're about?"

The shrill voice with the Cockney accent definitely did not belong to Christine. He assumed it was the landlady, Mildred Hobbes. And of course, his blasted lasso was halfway across the room. Even so, killing the landlady would definitely cause a stir.

"Please go away!" he rasped. "I am very ill!"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" the voice complained before he felt her push roughly at the door. "You'll say anything to avoid payin' your rent, won't you!"

So Tomkins left him with a back payment of rent, did he? He knew he should have killed the man! It was not that he could not afford it. It was the sheer audacity of the act that offended him.

"I shall write you a cheque immediately, Madame."

"What's wrong with you?" the woman harped. "You know I like me money in cash. And what's this Madame hoity-toity talk?"

Then the blasted woman leaned forward and caught sight of him in his mask through the crack in the door.

"Who are you?" she shrieked. "You're not Tomkins! I am going to call the police!"

Now that things had completely deteriorated out of all control, Erik had no choice but to pull her out of the shadowy corridor and into his dark room, grasping her by the throat.

"That would be quite unwise, Madame," he warned in his normal cultured tones. "For then I should have to kill you right here on the spot."

Mildred Hobbes was attractive in a coarse sort of way. Granted, her face was more striking than pretty. She had frizzy ash blonde hair and unusually large blue eyes. While appearing to be younger than Erik in age, she was obviously an older woman and no stranger to the ways of men. Wearing a low-cut coral-colored muslin blouse, her breasts were being shown off to their best advantage. And her hips were voluptuously curvy, just the right size for a man's hands. While Erik was unswervingly faithful to his Angel now he had found her again, he would be a hypocrite not to acknowledge that the generous curves of her body pressed smugly against his own was not unpleasant.

Once she had recovered from her fright, she managed to regain her speech.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What have you done with Tomkins?"

Erik allowed his grasp to move from her throat to a tight grip on her shoulder. As it was, he keeped her pinned firmly against the door in case she decided to be foolish.

"Monsieur Tomkins and I arrived at a convenient arrangement." Erik had to hold back a chuckle as her large eyes became even larger. No doubt she thought that the old man was buried in the cellar by now. "He is quite alive, I assure you. He has agreed to allow me to stay here in his absence."

"Why are you wearing a mask? Who are you? Why are you here?"

"So many questions," he chided, clucking his tongue. "Has no one ever told you that curiosity killed the cat?"

Cornering her against the wall, Erik was amused to see her feebly struggle against his strength.

"Let go of me," she begged, her voice becoming less harsh. "You're hurting me!"

Despite her protests, if Erik did not know better, he would have sworn that the woman found him rather attractive in a perverse sort of way. The longer he lived, the less he would ever understand women. As it was, she stared up at him with her eyes glazed and chest heaving, undoubtedly thinking…no, hoping…that he would take advantage of her. It was not something obvious, yet he sensed it.

Deciding that she was no longer a viable threat, Erik released her.

"There is no need for things to be unpleasant, Madame Hobbes," he advised. "I shall pay you your due rent in a timely fashion. And you shall keep your mouth shut about my presence here. I am a man who values my privacy. It is very important to me, vitally so."

His veiled threat seemed to make her pant even harder. Lord, he thought the woman was about to shrivel up into a swoon right before him!

"I won't say anything," she whispered. "Just don't hurt me, please…"

"I trust our business relationship will be an agreeable one, Madame Hobbes?"

Licking her lips, she nodded.

"You shouldn't have so many lit candles in here, Mister. It's a fire hazard, it is..."

"I shall take it under advisement."

For a few moments, Mildred Hobbes was unmoving, almost reluctant to leave him, so it seemed.

"Oh, and Mister?" she called out before leaving.

"What is it now?" Erik snapped, anxious for her to leave so he could go about his business.

"It is Mademoiselle," she advised him. "I'm not married."

He raised an eyebrow as she shut the door. What a saucy wench!


	11. Turn Your Face Away

Walking along the graveyard in Perros-Guirec, Christine shivered in the brisk cold, clutching her long blue cape about her shoulders tightly. She had forgotten how chilly it could be in this place, even in the spring. It was always colder here than in Paris due to the wind blowing from the sea. As usual, she felt the familiar stirrings of her heart as she walked about the familiar scenery. Although finances would be tight, she could not forsake her visit to her father's grave this year. Sending notes to all of her students, she impulsively made her trip to Perros earlier than she had expected to.

Was it the mournful strains of Mr. Tomkins' violin that made her so melancholy, yearning for the ghosts of her past?

Falling onto her knees upon the damp grass, she knelt before the Daae family mausoleum, praying for her father's voice...praying for her Angel's voice...

"Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me, Strange Angel," she whispered, trying to will his presence to her.

But there was no sound, save the wind whistling at her ears...

Of course, her Angel would not magically appear before her this time. There was no Angel, merely a man. He was no ethereal friend and teacher, but a murderer buried in the catacombs of the Garnier Opera House with not even so much as an unmarked grave. Why could she not just accept that?

How much grief could the human heart survive, mourning for two men rather than just one? Perhaps she should no longer come here. Would her father forgive her? Would her Angel understand?

"I thought I might find you here..."

Christine whirled around in fright, startled at the voice which burst out from the eerie quiet.

Raoul de Chagny stood behind her by an oak tree, his horse waiting just outside of the cemetery. Dressed impeccably in a thick overcoat with leather boots, he was every bit the handsome savior as ever with his blond curls blowing all about in the gusty breezes.

"Raoul," Christine nodded awkwardly, uncertain of what to say under these circumstances. She tried to hide her dismay at the sight of him. This meeting could come to nothing but discomfort for the both of them.

"I had hoped to find you here today...on the anniversary of your father's death..."

Raoul smiled at her gently with such hope and a desperate attempt of understanding in his deep blue eyes. Even when she knew she did not want to be his wife, her heart still broke at the sight of him. She turned away from him abruptly, not wanting to hear his words of friendship and comfort, not wanting to face his look of remorse and accusation which would inevitably follow when she would tell him that nothing had changed. Funny how that girl who had fancied herself so in love with him ceased to exist any longer. Had grief really transformed her so much?

"Come back to me, Christine. Please..."

Christine shook her head sadly, steeling her resolve against him.

"You shouldn't have come here, Raoul," she said softly. "Please let us part with dignity. Do not force me to say things which will only hurt you. It is over between us."

"Why?" he pleaded, his voice breaking as he whirled her about, gripping at her shoulders. "Why? Have I done something wrong? Whatever it is, please give me a chance..."

"It is not you, Raoul," she interrupted, hoping that he would listen to her. "It is me. I am not a fit wife for you nor am I ready for marriage. Please understand that I gave my decision a lot of thought. I just feel that we are too different, that I am not the sort of woman you really need for a wife."

"You are what I need!" he answered back. "You are the only woman for me! How can you possibly doubt that?"

"Raoul, what do we have in common besides our past?" she proclaimed sadly, trying to reason with him. "We were childhood friends. And we shall always have our beautiful memories of those days to look back on. But that is not enough to make a successful marriage. As you know, Raoul, my Catholic faith would never allow me to divorce. And I fear that if I married you, we might somehow grow disappointed in each other."

"This is such nonsense!" he snapped, petulance seeping into his well-cultured voice. "There are very happy long-lived marriages between people far less suited than we are. And together we shall make new memories."

Christine said nothing, resenting him for taking time away from her visit with her father, hating him for making her feel so guilty and uncomfortable. But most of all, she disliked how he seemed to not take her words seriously. Always, he treated her like a child, belittling her own judgments and feelings. Could she really live the rest of her life with such a man?

"You never talked this way before," he continued. "Remember the days of our engagement? I do not recall your hesitation during those days. You were too busy dining with me in fine restaurants and dancing the night away. What happened to that fun-loving girl?"

"She grew up."

Christine's answer was entirely too simplistic for the complexity of her emotions during the turbulent months of their engagement. The fact of the matter was that no matter how many fine experiences she had with Raoul, she was always looking for a mask. She was always waiting to find a black-ribboned red rose strewn in her path. She always felt those pained eyes burning into her. And she yearned to see the masked man again, even when she knew that he had committed murder. And she knew that she was wrong to feel that way. She knew that she had to force her fallen Angel out of her memory and heart. And so she whirled about gaily with the Vicomte in ballrooms. She ate as much as she could in the fine restaurants. She smiled with pleasure as they rode about in Raoul's carriage with the fine horses. And she relished the envious glances of the other women who peered her way while she held Raoul's arm possessively. But how much of it was simply going through the motions, trying to convince herself that she was the luckiest woman alive? If she was happy, no ghost could haunt her.

"Running away on your own on a mad dash to God knows where is hardly a sign of maturity, Christine," Raoul lectured. "And without so much as even a note saying goodbye. What a cowardly thing to do! You had me worried sick. Believe me, I combed Paris looking for you. I went to Mamma Valerius. I inquired everyone at the Paris Opera House. All to no avail! This was the very last hope I had...to find you here. And thank heaven that I did! You have been away for over two months now. Don't you think it is time to come home now, my love?"

The thought of returning to Paris made her shiver with revulsion. True, her life in London was a hard and lonely one. Yet she could at least walk the streets without stares of pity and condemnation in strangers' eyes. And she found that she quite enjoyed living life on her own terms for the first time. She did not need the approval of her father, Madame Giry, the Angel or Raoul. There was something splendidly freeing about it.

"Paris is no longer my home, Raoul. I am sorry that you are hurt, but my mind is made up."

"Of course, Paris is your home," he said, ignoring her protests. "Where else would you go? How else will you live?"

Remembering the large amount of money in her possession, courtesy of Lucille de Chagny, Christine knew that she would not inform Raoul of his sister's duplicitous actions. She did not desire to cause animosity within his family. She just wished that he would leave her alone and in peace.

"You need a woman with a title," she said, remembering all too well the smug look on Lucille's face as she blithely handed her a cheque, enabling her escape. "Someone that your family will not be ashamed of."

"I do not give a damn what my family thinks of you!"

"Well, I do, Raoul! I do not want them all polite and smiling at me in your presence, only to have them glare at me accusingly when you are gone. If we were to have offspring, I would not want my children to witness their mother being held in such disrespect by their own blood relatives. True, I never had much in a way of a family as I grew up. Yet my father and Mamma Valerius always loved me..."

"I love you, Christine," Raoul insisted. "Is that what this has all been about? I shall talk to them."

"It wouldn't matter," she answered. "Always they would think me unworthy of you. They would never think on me as the Vicomtess de Chagny, but as that chorus girl of the Opera Populaire who was promoted to an opera star by way of the Phantom of the Opera. That is what they will always whisper when they see me, Raoul. And that is indeed who I am."

The silence between them was dark and imposing.

"At last, we get to the truth of the matter," he said coldly, all sweetness now having dissolved from his voice. "I was wondering how long it would take before we would get to the real issue at hand. This is his doing, isn't it You're with him again, aren't you? Is he here now waiting to attack me?"

Looking about, Raoul reached for his sword, obviously preparing for yet another fight.

"Don't be a fool, Raoul!" Christine shouted at him angrily. "He is dead! Let him at least rest in peace with some dignity, please!"

"Does a murdering creature like that deserve dignity, Christine? Did Joseph Buquet die with dignity, being hung from the catwalk at the opera for all of Paris to see? Did Piangi die with dignity by merely doing his job and being at the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"No, of course not," she answered. "Of course they died horribly. Do you think a day does not go by that I do not grieve for them and their fate, knowing I was indirectly responsible?"

"You were not responsible at all, Christine!" Raoul raged. "He was! That Phantom or Angel or whatever he was...that man...Erik..."

"True, but he had suffered so. You know that, Raoul. All of his life was suffering."

"Suffering is no excuse to murder!" Raoul's face turned red with suppressed hatred of his nemesis. "Why do you always make excuses for him? Why do you take on the burden of his own crimes upon yourself? If I didn't know better, I'd think that maybe you..."

Then Raoul's grew silent and pale as the realization struck. As he looked at her incredulously, he must have read the truth in her eyes. His eyes darkened with misery and pain.

"Did you ever care for me, Christine?" he asked quietly, barely able to hold back the tears in his voice. "Or was I just a convenient escape hatch? I thought I was rescuing you from a cravenly beast who had forced his unwanted attentions upon you. But now I wonder! Perhaps you really loved him all along but were too much of a coward to face it!"

Christine did not know if what he said was accurate, but she could not deny his statements either. He took her silence for agreement.

"Yes, you cared about that poor creature all along, didn't you?" he raved. "And more than just as a teacher or a friend. After all, why did you want to keep our engagement a secret? You were afraid of what he would think! You were of afraid what he would do! And in his final living moments, when you chose to be his wife...Oh, trussed up and trapped as I was, do not think for one moment that I was blind to the way that you so passionately kissed him! That was no kiss of an unwilling woman, resigned to face her doom with a blackmailing monster. That was the kiss of an eager bride if ever there was one! Will you deny that, Christine? Will you?"

Again, Christine said nothing, merely bowing her head sadly. She would be damned if she would expose the secrets of her soul to him, even if his accusations were true.

"You could have been a Vicomtess!" he cursed furiously. "You could have been my wife! Yet you choose to spurn me for your ghostly killer. It doesn't even matter if he is alive or not. Even from the grave, he owns you. I suppose my family was right all along. You are...unworthy of me..."

Christine flinched as his words struck at her like stones, leaving her wounded and bloodied. And yet, she felt glad to hear them for somehow she knew that they had been there underneath the surface. She knew that Raoul was lashing out at her in pain, but she could not help but think that her Angel had never said anything as cruel as that to her. The masked man had only wanted to help her find the best in herself. Never had he insulted her for who she was. Never had he made her ashamed of her birthright. Indeed, he was if anything an affirmation of her own heritage, sharing with her the passions that she had loved since she was a little girl.

Tears rolled down her eyes as she heard Raoul turn from her and walk away, climbing onto his horse to gallop away from her as fast as he could. But she did not think she was crying for her former fiancé. She was crying for the past...for having her eyes opened too late...much too late...

Was he right? Had she really loved Erik all along?

The tears turned to sobs. What did it matter now?

Having completely lost whatever sense of comfort she was hoping to find in Perros-Guirec, Christine resolved to her new home in London.

"Goodbye, Father," she whispered, kissing her fingers and placing them upon the cold stone of the mausoleum. "I love you and you are always in my heart."

And then she closed her eyes, picturing the masked face of the man that haunted her dreams and nightmares.

"Wherever you are," she whispered. "Goodbye, Erik..."

The unfamiliar name felt strange upon Christine's lips as she bid her ghost farewell...


	12. Nighttime Sharpens

**A/N: Sorry, guys, but having Erik listen to Christine and Raoul's talk at the graveyard would be giving both him and the readers more satisfaction than I care to bestow at the moment. LOL!**

* * *

Erik paced about his room frantically, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to do anything but worry and curse himself. For the last two days, there had been no sweet offerings of tea. There had been no music lessons. There had been no sound below. It was as silent as a tomb in the room below.

Had Christine regained her senses and returned to Paris and to her fiancé? He felt sick at the very thought. Had something bad happened to her? Had she become ill or struck down somewhere? He should have kept a better watch on her, he cursed at himself. That was the whole reason he was here in this foggy dreary country!

But he had been so damned tired. At one point, he had been listening to one of Christine's music lessons. Then he drifted off so deeply that he had completely lost track of the time and of her. Was that when she had left?

He hated feeling so helpless.

There was no help for it. He would have to break into her room and see if her belongings were still there. Always, he kept his Punjab lasso and his lockpicking tools within close reach, never knowing when they would come in handy. So much for whatever moral leanings had occurred the day that he had not killed Mr. Tomkins. But this was too important. If something had happened to his beloved, then he had to know about it.

After having washed and dressed, Erik made his way to the lower floor, carefully picking at the lock until it snapped.

Once he entered her small sitting room, he felt as if he were in heaven. The scent of Christine's perfume was all about. Surrounded around him were all of the knickknacks and possessions that were part of her existence. A wash of memories overtook him as he looked about the room. He felt his eyes sting with tears.

At any rate, all of her things seemed to be there. So wherever she was, she had not left for parts unknown.

Venturing into the small bedroom on the side, he looked all about, overwhelmed with her invisible presence.

Sitting upon her bed, he buried his face into her lace-edged pillow with ecstatic pleasure. The combination of her scent along with seeing the bed where she slept made him harden with arousal. Yet he tried to push such thoughts out of his mind or he would go insane. Oh, yes, but he was already was mad, he giggled to himself as he took off his mask and rubbed his entire face into the sweet pillow. Oh, Christine! Once his senses returned to somewhat of a normal state, he stood up from her bed, taking care to adjust the bedspread so that there would be no incriminating wrinkles.

Going over to her dresser, he pulled a small dark curly hair from the comb sitting upon her dresser and placed it inside of his vest pocket.

Erik opened her closet, wondering if he would see any of the familiar dresses that she used to wear when she would visit him for singing lessons. Alas, they all seemed to be gone, replaced with dull colors of greys, browns and blacks. He shook his head, wondering why she suddenly yearned to dress like a drab little sparrow.

Returning back to her sitting room, he could not resist sitting at her piano. Pressing a note, he remembered that the instrument was in desperate need of tuning. How could Christine stand it? He tinkered about with the piano until the pitch of the notes was perfect. Then he played upon it, losing himself in one piece after another, trying to divest himself of his mad passion in the only way that he knew how. Oh, how he missed having his own pipe organ to create his sweeping masterpieces upon!

But he did not dare to carry on for this much longer. Indeed, he was being entirely too foolhardy, taking such risks.

Yet before he left, he noticed a much-read copy of _Wuthering Heights_ resting along the edge of a bookcase. For some time, he had been curious about this story but could never bring himself to buy a copy. Romance was not his favorite genre of literature. Still, he was desperate for some other entertainment besides just playing the violin during his assigned hours. And while he loved listening to Christine sing, listening to her teach other students for an eight-hour stretch every day was too much, even for him. Gingerly, he picked up the book, wondering if she would miss it.

Losing his nerve, he then placed the book back down upon the bookcase. It was too risky. If she did discover it missing, it could draw unwanted suspicion. As it was, he was not certain that her locks were not permanently broken from his tampering with them. And if she discovered that he was living above her, she would run away again. Even worse, she might try to call the police. He would hate to think of his darling betraying him so without the influence of the Vicomte, but after the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_, he could never be certain how much he would ever trust her again.

Just the memory of that night made him flinch.

* * *

_Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey…_

At last, the night of his opera was upon him.

At last, he would steal his soulmate from the Vicomte and take her as his bride.

Waiting on the sidelines, he saw his lovely Christine enter the stage, wearing the white silken blouse and the red gypsy skirt that he had designed especially for her on this night. Never had she been so beautiful. Just looking at her made him dizzy with desire. Even as he efficiently choked the life out of Signor Piangi, he fantasized of what it would be like to take the rose out of Christine's hair and rub it along the naked sensitive flesh of her breasts.

Then he entered the stage in Piangi's place. It was only one risk in a night full of risks. But what a sweet prize he would win before the night was out! Placing his fingers to his lips, he secretly entreated Christine's secrecy as he joined her upon the stage.

Together, they sang the passionate words of their duet, singing of the inevitable lust which must be succumbed to. He had written this song for her. It was only fitting that he should sing the song with her. And as he watched her mind fall prey to the suggestive lyrics, he also was victim to the most erotic images. He went through the motions, following the stage choreography, singing the words perfectly. Yet all the while, he imagined Christine naked underneath him, finally his, holding back nothing.

Even when she would nervously glance up at her Vicomte, there was no questioning her true desire. She could pretend to love Raoul de Chagny. She could yearn for a life of quiet respectability. But she was meant to be by his side. Even the hushed audience knew it, feeling the intensity of the embracing couple upon the stage.

Nuzzling his face into her throat, he could have taken her right there on the stage, uncaring if all Paris watched. Words of love poured from his lips. He would give her the world if she would only let him. _Please be mine, Christine, please…_

As Christine turned to face him, for once he could not read the look in her eyes. Yes, she was consumed with passion and tenderness. Yet there was something else there, lurking and ready to strike like a snake. It was not until she quickly yanked off his mask before the entire world that he realized that expression. It was one of treachery.

Covering his face in disbelief and horror, he could only stare at Christine in pain and betrayal, unbelieving that she could be so cruel.

The blind anger overwhelmed him as he set his device in motion, allowing the chandelier to rip through the ceiling as he escaped with Christine into the dark. He did not care what innocents died at his hand. He did not care if all of Paris died. All of his dreams of lust and passion had rotted into a desire for death and destruction for everyone. All because of his betraying Delilah that he had only wanted to love…

Why did she do such a thing to him? Why?

* * *

Shaking his head, he tried to rid such memories from his mind. If it hadn't have been for that idiotic boy, Christine would never have done such a thing to him.

Returning back to the present, he decided to take _Wuthering Heights_ after all. He needed the entertainment and distraction. If he read it quickly, she would never know it was gone. And then he could return it back to its proper place when he had done with it. Yes, that is what he would do.

Quickly taking the book, he left her apartment, hoping that the locks would function normally. They seemed to be more or less intact. Hurrying back up to his own room, he was shocked to see his irate landlady standing in front of his door, her hands resting upon her hips.

"So it was you!"

Mildred Hobbes glared at him, her eyes large with accusation and disapproval. Curses! Would this annoying woman never learn to fear him and mind her own business?

"I was wonderin' how I was hearin' piano playin' in that room when Miss Daae was off visitin' her poor dead father's grave!"

Of course! Erik could have kicked himself for being such a fool when he remembered the date. It was the anniversary of Christine's father's death. Of course, she had gone out to Perros-Guirec. For the first time since he realized that she was missing, he could breathe again. So relieved was he that he had almost forgotten about his bothersome landlady, shooting poisonous darts at him with her eyes.

"See here," she lectured haughtily. "I shouldn't even be lettin' a blackguard like you stay in my place. It's bad enough you're playin' that bloody violin at all hours but to sneak into another tenant's room to play her piano…I ought to report you to the police! I still have my doubts that Mr. Tomkins ain't lyin' about as a corpse somewheres!"

Taking his hand to her throat, he pressed Mildred Hobbes against the wall of the corridor.

"There is one thing you should learn about me, Mademoiselle Hobbes," he snarled. "I abhor interfering women who do not know their place and do not keep civil tongues in their heads. I owe you no explanations for my behavior or actions. Understood?"

Again, he noted with dismay that glazed look in her eyes.

"What do you want with Miss Daae?" she continued, goading him on. "She's a sweet young thing. I don't like masked men goin' into her room all hours of the night, doin' God knows what! I'm runnin' a boardin' establishment here, not a cathouse!"

"Shut up!" he snarled, tightening his grip slightly upon her throat, not enough to hurt her but enough to scare her. "Mademoiselle Daae is a lady. And you shall not speak about her in such a way or you shall dance to a tune not of your liking, Hobbes, I swear it!"

There was something about this woman that appealed to his baser nature. He always prided himself on behaving as a gentleman around the fairer sex, but with this woman, it was simply impossible. He did not know if he yearned to paw her, strike her or kill her. Maybe all three. And the fact that she inspired such lewdness in him when he was living right above the love of his life made him even angrier.

Mildred's eyes burned with hot excitement. The horrible woman was enjoying his threats! The more villainous he acted towards her, the more she seemed to like it! It was infuriating. Why did she not run away from him like a normal woman?

"Please don't hurt me, Mister!" she whispered softly, trying to pry his hand from her throat. "I'll give you anything you want if you don't kill me. I swear!"

He loosened his grip, grateful that she seemed to be coming to heel.

Then the saucy wench reached up and planted a kiss right upon his mouth!

Paralyzed with shock, he did nothing but stand there dumbly, his lips and tongue being plundered by this insatiable vixen with her perverse desires. He hated it. He hated how sweet her mouth tasted. He hated the way that his manhood stood up with blind attention, ready for more. He hated feeling so unfaithful to Christine. But most of all, he hated feeling so out of control.

When it was over, she pulled back with a naughty gleam in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips. And her expression said _Don't take advantage of Miss Daae! Take advantage of me!_

Disgusted, he pulled away from the woman as if he had been burned.

"Don't tempt me to kill you!" he threatened harshly as he turned from her and entered the sanctity of his own room.


	13. Man and Mystery

After the ordeal in Perros-Guirec, Christine was relieved to be once again back in the comfortable little niche that she had created for herself. On the train ride back to London, she was plagued with self-doubt and had broken down in tears more than a few times. Had she done the right thing by sending Raoul away? Would she come to regret it? Yet now that she was back in her new home, she could lose herself in her music and her teaching while trying to put the pain of her past behind her.

She was especially grateful that her first lesson upon her return was with Geraldine. The exuberant redhead never failed to lift her spirits.

"You must come to see my performance at the Savoy, Miss Daae," her student pleaded. "I would feel so much better knowing that you were there."

"Oh, I don't know, Geraldine..." Christine hesitated. "I really know of no one that I could attend the performance with."

"Oh, Miss Daae!" the girl huffed with disgust. "This is Eighteen Eighty-Two! I am certain that you could attend without having a man at your side and no one would think anything of it."

Christine smiled cynically. Geraldine was so young and still thought she could bend society to her own will. Still, there was a possibility. Perhaps Mr. Tomkins would be interested in accompanying her to the performance. He was a musician after all. And the poor man always seemed to be indoors, never getting out much. Perhaps it would do him good to get a little sunshine after that horrible illness he had suffered.

"Maybe I shall go," Christine nodded. "But I shall make no promises."

Even that much encouragement caused her student to jump up and down with excitement.

"You can meet my new suitor, Edgar," Geraldine enthused. "He has asked me to marry him, but I do not know if I care to make the sacrifice to marry right now with the way that my singing career is progressing. Perhaps you could meet him and give me your opinion on the matter."

"I should be the last person to advise you on matters of the heart, Geraldine."

But the girl ignored her warning with a shrug.

"And afterwards, perhaps we could all go to dinner at some scandalous restaurant with alcohol and dancing girls. It will be such fun!"

Christine shook her head helplessly with a grin, not having the heart to discourage her lively student from her excitement.

"Oh, and Miss Daae, I meant to get that book from you that you recommended so highly. What was it? That Brontë novel?"

"Oh, yes!" Christine answered with a reverent nod. "_Wuthering Heights_! Such a sad and romantic story. I cried several times reading it. All about Heathcliff and Cathy with their doomed love out on the lonely moors...but I shouldn't ruin it for you." Walking to her bookshelf, she reached for the spot where her book rested, and found it missing. "Silly me! I seem to have misplaced it."

Christine looked all about. That was so odd! She always kept that book in the same spot, for occasionally she would re-read certain chapters. Where was it?

And then an inexplicable rush of coldness passed through her. She had no way of rationalizing it, and yet she felt that this was significant that she could not find this book. But obviously her mind was just playing tricks upon her. Perhaps one of her students had taken it. But why would anyone do such a thing?

Once Geraldine had left, Christine realized that she had a bit of spare time between lessons. So she made a cup of Mr. Tomkins' tea, just the way that he like it, and carried it up to the floor above.

Softly, she knocked upon the door.

"What the devil do you want?" the voice inside growled furiously through the slight opening of the door.

Christine's heart pounded in fright. Why, Mr. Tomkins sounded absolutely evil! He must be feeling quite ill to be so nasty.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Tomkins," she said timidly. "I made you some tea. Are you feeling better?"

She heard a soft intake of breath from beyond the door.

"Oh, yes, my child," the voice softened with a rasp. "Yes, I am slowly recovering, I suppose. It was so kind of you to think of me. Please leave the tea outside of the door. And I apologize for my fiendish temper. I thought you were someone else."

"It is quite alright," she said hesitantly, rather glad that she was not the person that he thought he was addressing.

"I heard your last lesson with that soprano," Mr. Tomkins ventured. "Her voice is coming along quite nicely, isn't it? Although she still tends to sing with those flat A's."

Christine smiled at the thought that he was paying such close attention to her music lessons.

"Yes, but she will improve," she answered with a smile. "Geraldine is quite a determined young girl. I wish I had only half of her ambition. Back in the days when I performed on stage, I...allowed myself to get distracted by too many things. If I could only go back, perhaps I would have done things differently. If I could have only been more like her, completely focused on my art and not allowing myself to get swayed by silly nonsense like romance, perhaps I should have been happier."

"Oh, I don't know..."

Christine raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"I don't see how you could possibly know about my life back then, Mr. Tomkins." That is, unless he too had heard about the affair of the Phantom of the Opera. She suddenly and fervently prayed that he had no knowledge of the event.

"Of course not, child," he answered quickly. "I just meant that perhaps it is not too late for you to succeed upon the stage again. If you only apply yourself...such talent as yours should not be wasted..."

"Do you think that teaching is a waste, Mr. Tomkins?"

"No, dear, far from it," he said hastily. "But you are young and beautiful. You can teach at any age. Yet to be a great opera singer, you only have a small window of time to truly make your mark upon the world."

"That is kind of you to say," she nodded, wishing that she could go past the door and see his face. "Often I do miss being on the stage. Mr. Tomkins?"

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if...well, forgive me if I sound horribly forward, but I was wondering if you should like to go with me to attend a performance that Geraldine is giving. I believe it is to be held a week from now. She would so like for me to attend, but I should feel quite awkward going alone."

There was a long pause. Then a wretched sigh of despair.

"I would love to attend, Miss Daae," the voice answered. "More than you know."

"Wonderful!" Christine enthused.

"But..." the voice interrupted. "I hate to say that I cannot. I am still much too ill. If you and the child were to be exposed to my wretched state, your voices should be out of commission for some time. I would hate to be the cause of such a tragic event."

"Oh..." Christine answered, dejectedly. "You do not think you should recover within a week's time?"

"I would hate to risk it."

"Well, I do wish you should recover soon," she answered, unable to disguise the disappointment in her voice. "I had been thinking that perhaps we could have tea together. And there are a few musical scores I have that would go wonderfully with violin accompaniment."

"That would be most improper, my dear, for a man to be with a woman alone in her apartment. What would people say?"

"I doubt anyone would say anything," Christine answered quickly. "I am alone with my male students all of the time. And Miss Hobbes doesn't seem to mind if I have men alone in my apartment."

"No, she wouldn't," the voice snorted.

"You don't like Miss Hobbes, Mr. Tomkins?" Christine asked curiously. "She's always been very civil and friendly with me, although I think she fancies me as a bit of an aloof loner."

"You should pay no mind as to what a woman like that thinks!" Mr. Tomkins said indignantly, losing the raspiness of his illness momentarily.

"Well, at any rate," Christine continued. "I am sorry that you can not accompany me. It would do you good to get out a bit more, Mr. Tomkins."

"I shall take it under advisement. Good day, Miss Daae."

The door closed.

Christine was a bit hurt to be so abruptly turned away by her neighbor. Perhaps he was an old-fashioned sort who did not approve of her effrontery of asking him out to a social event. At any rate, he had refused her. And she did not think that she would care to go to Geraldine's recital alone.

------------------------

Geraldine would not take 'no' for an answer.

Therefore, a week later, Christine found herself seated next to Geraldine's suitor, Mr. Edgar Holloway, at the Savoy Theater. Mr. Holloway was a nice young man who seemed to only have eyes for the red-headed soprano on stage. Christine was relieved that she would not have to fight off his attentions, that she could hold casual conversation with a young man and not feel threatened.

As it was, Christine had dressed as fine as she had in her Paris days. Yes, she was still in a gown of black. However, the gown was of lace and silk and rather low-cut. She had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to have it especially made for the event. Still, she reasoned that if she were going to go to the theater, she would go in respectable style. And it felt good to dress up a little again. She even wore a red silken rose in her dark locks for a special touch.

Geraldine was marvelous with every song that she sang. The style of Gilbert and Sullivan suited her playful nature. She was absolutely perfect.

Throughout the night, Christine felt bloated with pride as she watched her student perform. Yet, her pleasure was short-lived when she saw a familiar man outside of the theater as she waited with Edgar for Geraldine to exit from the stage door outside.

"Mr. Tomkins!" Christine cried out in surprise.

Her upstairs neighbor was nattily dressed in expensive evening clothes with a walking cane, his white hair shockingly bright in the contrast of the night. He seemed ill-suited in such finery and more than a little drunk as he wobbled to her side.

"Miss Daae!" he called out with a toothy smile. Odd, but his voice sounded quite different tonight than ever before. If she didn't know better, she would think that it was a different man living upstairs all together.

"How are things at that old Hobbes boarding house?" he laughed with the trace of spirits upon his breath.

"I suppose rather quiet without your violin playing tonight," Christine joked good-naturedly, more than a little confused. "I am surprised to see you in attendance tonight, Mr. Tomkins. You said you were too ill to venture out."

Even in his drunken state, Mr. Tomkins looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

"What are you talking about, young lady?" he asked loudly. "I don't play the violin. I hate the cursed squeaky things! And I've never felt better in my life!"

Christine could not believe her ears.

"Believe me, I feel a lot better now that I'm out of that old Hobbes place!" he confided. "Now that I'm not climbing those stairs every day, I feel years younger. Yessirree!"

The world seemed to blur and spin a bit as Christine was sure she was about to faint.

"Just between you and me," Mr. Tomkins whispered to her confidentially. "I am only here because of a certain young lady in the chorus. Funny how women start to pay attention to you when you fall into some money, eh?"

She said nothing. She was in too much disbelief to speak.

"But I abhor operas, operettas, anything with singing...just a lot of caterwauling it all is! I'd rather spend my money at the gambling hall or the horse races, I would!"

Then a frowsy big-bosomed blonde came out from the stage door, calling out for Mr. Tomkins in a high-pitched voice.

"Pardon me, Miss Daae," Mr. Tomkins bowed. "My lady love awaits."

Christine only stared at the man dumbly as he fetched a cab and rode off with the chorus girl.

Edgar Holloway rushed to her side.

"Miss Daae," he asked with concern. "Are you quite all right? You look quite distressed."

For a second, she could only stare at Edgar wordlessly.

"It is just a bit chilly out here, Mr. Holloway," she said hollowly. "I am sure I shall be fine."

The rest of the evening went by in a blur.

Christine refused to go out to dinner with Geraldine and Edgar afterwards, making up an excuse that she had a headache. As she was escorted home, her mind raced. If the man above her was not Mr. Tomkins, then who was he? And why was he pretending to be someone that he wasn't? She should mind her own business. After all, it was none of her affair if she lived downstairs from some sort of strange imposter. She tried to put the incident out of her mind. She would simply not venture upstairs any longer. She did not care who the man was. All she knew was that she did not want to be involved. She did not want her quiet life to be disturbed in any way.

As she entered her room, the sight of her copy of _Wuthering Heights_ once more placed upon her bookshelf caused her to shake uncontrollably with fraught nerves. All the while, the strains of the violin music played eerily from up above.

Who was playing that haunting music?


	14. The Music That I Write

Mildred Hobbes, for the first time in her life, set foot in a library. There had been little need for her to ever visit the London Library at St. James Square before, seeing as how she seldom had the time or the inclination to read a book. In fact, her literacy skills were extremely lacking as she had never had any formal education when growing up. During her impoverished youth, she only learned whatever she needed to know in order to survive.

Yet on this late spring day, she braved the unfamiliar institution, enduring the haughty glances of the scholars and librarians all about her. With a proud stubbornness, she forged ahead to the catalogues in the main reading room, holding her head up high...well, as high as a woman could hold her head when she wore a dress with material worn so thin that it resembled a large rag covering her body. Well, let the snobs look down on her, she sneered as she perused the reference materials. She was accustomed to such treatment. Indeed, she had known nothing else all of her life.

Yes, she may have been born with every disadvantage that a woman could have if she had loftier goals in life. But she had inherited one quality which always worked in her favor: an unshakeable tenacity to get what she wanted. And what she wanted right now was information.

Mildred Hobbes was bound and determined to read up on all of the scandalous stories written about her mysterious boarder, Christine Daae. And by doing so, perhaps she would find out more about the real object of her curiosity, the masked man that she found herself so strangely drawn to.

Mildred's more sophisticated tenants knew a thing or two about the quiet curly-haired brunette which they gleefully divulged to their landlady over dinner. With all of her ladylike airs, the prim Christine Daae had really started out as nothing but a common chorus girl in Paris, dancing for the Opera Populaire. That is, until she took up with some freakish murderer who helped her to become an opera star. There were even rumors that the soprano had been engaged to a duke or some such, but Mildred did not believe it. No girl would throw away a fancy Frenchman with money only to live a life of solitude in a dingy boarding house. No one in their right mind, at least. So how did this notorious woman end up at her door? What was she hiding? And what did the masked man want with her?

Much to Mildred's annoyance, she had to ask one of the higher-than-thou librarians to help her find the information that she sought in the enormous catalogue. Not only were her reading skills too challenged to accomplish her mission, but the print was so small that her eyes were becoming quite strained. The man's condescending tone as he helped her made her want to spit in his eye. Yet she merely clenched her hands into tight fists at her sides, doing her best to hold her tongue and her temper.

Once she had acquired the materials that she sought, several yellowed editions of various newspapers describing a fire at the Paris Opera House and a few theatrical reviews, she sat at a small table in frustration, not quite certain where to start. A pity that she did not speak and read French, she mused, as she looked through the papers. Then she laughed at her own silliness. She could barely read English as it was. Still, there was a small accounting of the "chandelier incident" and the fire in the London newspaper. So she started with that one.

Thus, Mildred Hobbes began to read about the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera.

As she read the article, occasionally having to look up a word or two in a large dictionary nearby, all of the fragmented pieces of the puzzle started to fit together in her mind. Too many things started to make sense. Despite the rumors that the Phantom of the Opera was dead, Mildred knew the truth. That man living on the fourth floor was indeed the monster known as Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, who had murdered countless men. Obviously, he was still in love with Christine Daae and was still plotting on having his way with her. She knew that she should call the authorities and have the man arrested. The last thing that she needed was trouble with the law.

And yet she could not bring herself to do it...

Mildred could still remember all too well the taste of his warms lips upon her own. She could still smell that clean masculine scent when his body had pressed closely to her own. She still felt the rasp of his mask against her cheek. She touched her lips at the memory.

No, she did not intend to turn the Phantom in.

Mildred was not a woman accustomed to throwing herself at men. In general, she had found the opposite sex to be of little use to her in life. Her father had always been a lazy drunk; and that was before he had abandoned her and her mother when she was ten years old. The local boys she grew up were often rude and obnoxious, only interested in fighting and sports. When they grew older, those same boys then were only interested in seeing how far they could get their hands up her skirts. Even the tenants who were always late with their payments or disorderly were invariably male.

Oh, she had her share of lovers over the years. When one was as impoverished as she was when growing up, virtue was a luxury. Long ago, she had given up her dreams of marrying a man who would rescue her from her life of squalor. She had neither the beauty nor the connections to turn such a man's head. Thus, she gave away her favors, particularly in her younger days when such intimacies meant a fancy dinner or a nice fur coat. But she had never seen what the fuss was about. Intercourse always seemed to her to be a pleasure reserved only for men. For women, it was an unpleasant business that was nothing but pain, pregnancy and disease.

So why did this masked man on the top floor, this Phantom of the Opera, make her feel so odd?

From the moment she had first spied him in Mr. Tomkins' room, she had felt a strange sort of fascination with him. When he had roughly grabbed her and snarled threats at her with that evil gleam in his eyes, she realized that for the first time in her life, her body had experienced an urgent and aching insistence that she was unfamiliar with. She guessed that the sensation was one of lust as she had the most incredible urge to raise her skirts and rub herself against him. She wanted to engage in the sex act with him, and not in exchange for money or gifts. She merely wanted to experience the act for itself with him. She wanted to feel that hateful man's body savagely push inside of her with all of the violence that was seething inside of his wiry frame. She wanted to mate with him like an animal, the rougher the better.

Mildred did not understand her feelings. Was she simply attracted to the mystery and danger of the stranger who had suddenly appeared in her life? Had her monotonous existence of running a boarding house finally pushed her over the edge to the point where she needed some sort of wild thrill to make her feel alive? Or was it that she merely wanted to explore these new sensations that he made her feel just by being close to her?

Never one to be overly analytical, Mildred did not contemplate such matters too much. She asked the questions, but did not concentrate hard enough to find the answers. All she knew was that she wanted him in the most primitive sort of way. Indeed, she not only wanted him to take her, but she fantasized him of debasing her in the most horrific ways.

These feelings scared her at first, so she stayed away from him.

But that night when she had spied him leaving Christine Daae's room, she had lost all pretense of indifference towards him. At first, she was consumed by jealousy for a woman that she barely even knew. Why did he want to be bothered with that shy little mouse who always dressed in such boring colors? The boarder lived like a nun, so Mildred knew it was not simply a means to get easy sex. No, he was interested in much more in Christine Daae than just a simple roll in the hay. Of course, this was before she knew the truth of what they were to each other.

Not accustomed to such feelings of envy, Mildred began to goad at him until she lost all of her inhibitions, deliberately provoking him. Giving in to her body's urge, she kissed him, trying to lead him on into a state of violent lust. Oh, she could feel him fighting the passion that was sweeping through his body as hotly as it was through her own. She could still recall how his arms and shoulders hardened with rock-like strength under the palms of her hands as she clung to him. But even with his murderous threats, he still held back, unwilling to give in to what they both knew was between them.

All night she had tossed and turned in her miserable state of yearning, cursing him for making her feel so desperately wanton and unfulfilled. And she also cursed Christine for standing between her and the object of her desire.

That was when she decided to find out about the singing teacher. One thing she had learned in her life: knowledge was power. And now she had some sweet little facts at her fingertips indeed.

Returning the materials to the mean librarian, Mildred set about on her way back to her boarding house and back to her masked tormentor.

Oh, yes, Mildred had learned quite a few things that could work out to her advantage quite nicely. She bit back a smile when she once again felt her body stir with the thought of having the Phantom of the Opera at her mercy...and naked in her bed...

* * *

_And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I CANNOT live without my life! I CANNOT live without my soul!'_

Erik reread the passage that he had scrawled out from Christine's novel, _Wuthering Heights_. This had been one of his favorite parts, the section where Heathcliff lamented the death of his dear Cathy. The book had been much better than he had imagined. In fact, it was inspiring. He intended to purchase his own copy so that he could write notes to himself throughout the novel. There was something about the dark haunting tone of the story that suited his mood perfectly. As he read the story, he imagined himself as the dark brooding Heathcliff, his beloved Christine as the spirited Cathy and that wretched Vicomte as Edgar Linton, the man that Cathy chose to marry when her soulmate was Heathcliff. The casting in his head was perfect, he noted with a wry grin. True, he imagined Heathcliff to be a handsome man, his face smooth and clear of any deformities; yet the character's harsh nature and his passion for Catherine Earnshaw were qualities that Erik identified all too well with. Always, Heathcliff was a man on the outside looking in, always looked down upon as a 'dirty gypsy beggar' no matter how wealthy he became, never allowed to be happy with the only woman he had ever loved. As he recognized more and more of his own similarities with the character, Erik was attracted and repulsed at the same time.

Then a melody began to play repeatedly in his head...a sad romantic piece that spoke of lonely moors and hills of heather throughout the English countryside...

Damn his soul, what he would not sacrifice for a piano right at this moment!

Reaching for a sheet of parchment, Erik began to scribble out musical notes on a makeshift score of four drawn lines, determined to get the music out of his head and onto paper. He only heard a few strains of the melody, but it would do for the moment. Indeed, this was the first true inspiration he had since the night of _Don Juan_. He resolved to go to the music store tomorrow and purchase some musical scrolls. And he needed resin for his violin bow anyway. If only he could get a piano up to the top floor of this old boarding house without being noticed. If only he could get to Christine's piano...

But he had taken too many chances with her as it was, 'borrowing' her novel as he had.

As Christine's dulcet tones bled through the thin walls, his mind started to go down that forbidden path again...that path which led to her. How wonderful it had been to hear her sweet voice again, whispering so softly through the crack of his door, especially after he had been so worried that he had once again lost her to the Vicomte! When she had visited him as Mr. Tomkins, asking him to her student's performance, how he wished he could have said 'yes'! The tempting word had been on the tip of his tongue. How he wished he could have been another man with another face and could have started all over again, escorting her to the opera, having her soft delicate hand resting upon the crook of his arm. How he wished he could kiss that hand and then turn it over to kiss her palm. Then he would rain kisses up her arm to the sweet hollow of her slim neck. He would bite and nuzzle and nip at that tender flesh until she would squirm against him in need. Then he would pull her dress down to reveal her lovely tender breasts...

Stop it, he cursed at himself as he felt himself harden. How had his thoughts turned from an innocent opera date to a heated coupling in the dark? Why did she always drive him to such lustful imaginings?

Although he paced about in frustration, he felt a small fraction of peace regardless. At least, he still had his music. He had not lost that. No, not that...

Again, he sat down and continued to write a pattern of musical notes upon the parchment, lost in the bliss of creativity that made him forget who he was...and what he could not have...


	15. Surrender to Your Darkest Dreams

**Warning: This chapter has some sexual content in it. Proceed at your own risk.**

* * *

Even when the night was silent, the violin music kept playing in Christine's head...haunting her...tormenting her...beckoning her...

_And he'll always be there singing songs in my head, he'll always be there singing songs in my head..._

Yanking the sheet off of her bed in tired frustration, Christine arose to her feet. Lighting a candle, she made her way to the living room, opening the front door in order to make her way up the staircase to the fourth floor, oblivious to the fact that she was barefoot, uncaring that she was wearing nothing but a flowing nightgown of the thinnest white silk. She was strangely unafraid as she made her journey. This was her fate. She knew that now.

She knocked on the door of the room on the fourth floor, the room that previously belonged to Mr. Tomkins...

There was no coy pretense with a slightly ajar door, not this time. No, this time the door opened widely until Christine could see the white mask glowing in the darkness. How that mask controlled her! She had caressed the mask lovingly with her curious fingers as her Angel of Music serenaded her with love songs in the darkness of his candlelit world. She had feared that mask, terrified of the gruesome demonic sight that lay beneath its covering. She had ruthlessly ripped away at the mask twice, once out of curiosity and the other time out of betrayal. How bitterly she had paid the price for her actions both times! What did the mask want of her now?

Christine knew the answer instinctively. Indeed, it was foolish of her to even ask such a question. The mask wanted her soul helplessly bound to it forever. The mask wanted her naked and in chains, kept in dreamlike servitude under its watch. And she was resigned to her destiny.

Of course, the mysterious violin-playing imposter behind the door had been her Angel of Music, her Phantom of the Opera...Erik...

The demanding mismatched eyes behind the mask beamed brightly from the darkness, taking in the state of her vulnerability, of her loose hair and sheer clothing, of her ultimate submission.

"Mr. Tomkins, we meet face to face at last."

Although Christine tried to sound cool and collected, even sarcastic, she knew that it was hopeless to pretend. She could not hide the wild excitement trembling in her voice. Her heart beat so fast at the sight of him that she was sure she would faint. And this time, he affected her much more intensely than ever before. Perhaps it was because she knew that this time he had truly captured her, that there would be no knight in shining armor to save her, that there was no going back. This time, they had truly gone beyond the point of no return, as his song in _Don Juan Triumphant_ so eloquently stated. He had trapped his prey at last. And she knew that her eyes were alight with her own passion in answer to his own. And he knew how she burned for him for she saw the acknowledgment in his eyes. Indeed, she could never hide from him.

"Come, Christine."

She felt his beautifully shaped large hands reach for her own timid ones, capturing them with a sure grasp.

"I've been waiting for you..."

Erik enveloped her into the darkness of his room. Once again, they were surrounded by candles and pitch blackness. Once again, they were lost in that secret world that they alone only knew. But this time, there were no more secrets between them.

Slowly, he pulled her within the strong cage of his arms. Never had she felt so fragile as he trapped her within his tight grip. She gasped at the feel of his mouth fervently pressing against her neck in the darkness. Rather than struggling against those caressing lips, she tilted her head to the side, allowing him further access, permitting him to have his way. At last, she felt that familiar magic soaring through her body, making her knees weak with its strength. She clutched onto his shoulders feverishly, begging him to stop, begging him to continue. Yet all she could hear was tomblike silence and the insistent wet suckling sound of his mouth upon her tender skin.

Christine gasped when he gently pulled at the neckline of her gown, allowing it to fall down to her waist. The cold of the night air teased her bare breasts, causing her to shiver with forbidden sensation. She felt paralyzed as he touched her virgin flesh with his fingertips, teasing and goading her on to urgent madness.

Her lips had lost the capacity for speech. She could only mew softly as his hands grew bolder, squeezing and massaging.

It was too much. It was not enough.

With the swiftness of a tiger, Erik swept her up into his arms, carrying her into the blackness of his bedroom.

"Your chains are still mine," the masked man whispered. "You belong to me."

Christine shivered violently, awaking in the darkness.

Only another dream...another nightmare...

Drenched in perspiration, her body ached fiercely with that strange sensation which she supposed was mere animal lust. She was in utter agony. How would she ever sleep when her body was subject to Erik's whims, even in her dreams?

Experimentally, she touched the tips of her breasts through the silk of her nightgown, moaning at how sensitive they had become. Then very slowly, her hand slid down to that taboo territory underneath her drawers and between her legs. She was damp, horribly so. The evidence of her sinful longings both repelled and fascinated her. At the slight touch of her fingers, her body reacted as if it had been struck by lightning.

Suddenly, Christine remembered an incident where one of her less-than-pristine students had left a notebook on the settee after her lesson. Picking up the book and leaving a mental note to herself to return it to her student the following week, she was surprised to see a postcard fall out of the notebook. On it was a sketching of a naked woman, her hand probing between her outstretched legs while her head hung back in lustful bliss. Christine had dropped the postcard as if she had been burned. With a furious blush, she placed the card back into its place in the book, pretending that she had never seen the shameful image.

Yet Christine remembered that picture all too clearly now. Like that woman in the card, she would only need to touch herself there to relieve the ache. She would not do it so much as to receive pleasure, just enough to ease the discomfort. And then she would go to confession in the morning after a good night's sleep.

Swallowing with determination, she rubbed herself with curiosity. Yet the feelings seemed to only intensify rather than ease. Perhaps this was God's way of punishing her for daring to commit such a horrid act.

The most grotesque imaginings began to run through her head. She would go blind. Her palms would grow hairy. She would make herself mad and have to be committed into some terrifying insane asylum. Although she still ached, her fears cooled her ardor. With the strength of her religious convictions, she willed her hand away from that spot. She could not do such a horrible thing. It was the worse sort of sin. St. Aquinas preached that it was even worse than rape. Even though she had never seen it mentioned in the bible, she knew that touching herself there in such a lecherous way was a sin. Even if she was a woman and could not "spill seed", there was still something wrong about it. She did not know the logic of it, yet she knew that it must be so.

Were a few fleeting moments of self-indulgence caused by a nightmare worth an eternity in hell?

Knowing any attempt to sleep would be futile, Christine set about dousing herself off with water as cold as she could stand it. She hated feeling this way. She hated it when her body no longer felt as if it belonged to herself.

Once she returned to the bed, she was determined not to look at the clock. She did not want to know just how much sleep she was losing. In this case, ignorance was indeed bliss as she had a full day of music lessons on the morrow. Tossing and turning, she lost track of the time. Even though she did not give in to her body's demands, she still was tormented with the memories of her dream. And she cursed herself for being a silly fool. Erik was dead. Whoever that man was upstairs, he could not be Erik.

But what about _Wuthering Heights_? she asked herself. Merely the product of an exhausted mind and an overly active imagination. Obviously, she must have suffered some sort of hallucination or delusion. That was all.

With that reasoning, she felt somewhat released from her fears and at last fell into a short but merciful sleep.

* * *

Christine was never all that fond of coffee; yet she made a large pot of it in the morning, consuming cup after cup of it as the day progressed. Yes, she felt jittery and a bit of a wreck, but at least she was awake.

Even so, her mind wandered as Jeanette, another one of her talented soprano students, sang her aria. The piece was from _Hannibal_, one that Christine had sung herself several times under her Angel's...no, Erik's tutorage. Once her song was completed, Jeanette looked at her with hopeful expectation. Christine was ashamed to realize that she had barely heard the singer at all, her mind wandering off in a tired distraction with memories of the past. What sort of a teacher was she?

"That was fine, Jeanette," she answered automatically. "Just fine. Keep up with your progress, my dear."

Jeanette beamed with pride at the compliment. Christine smiled with bemusement. Did she bestow compliments upon her students so rarely then?

"I am glad that you liked it, Miss Daae," Jeanette chirped. "Especially since you sang this at the Opera Populaire so many times yourself."

"Yes, child," Christine nodded. "I am surprised that you found the sheet music for such a piece."

"It was just recently published, I believe. And you know, the oddest thing occurred when I went to fetch this music, Miss Daae..." Jeanette confided. "At the music store, I asked for the sales clerk to play a selection of the piece on the piano. Just so that I could be sure that it was in the right range for me, as you know I have no eye for reading music. And there was a man there listening very intently. A very odd sort of man. I believe he was purchasing some resin for his violin. And he asked me how I had come across this music. And, Miss Daae, it was the strangest thing for the man wore a mask..."

The air seemed to suck out of Christine's lungs before everything went black...

* * *

_Your chains are still mine...you belong to me..._

Over and over, the words repeated until the timber of the voice changed into a female's voice.

"Miss Daae! Miss Daae! Are you all right?"

Jeanette was shaking Christine to consciousness. By her student's side was her landlady, Mildred Hobbes.

"Forgive me for fetching your landlady, Miss Daae," Jeanette pleaded. "But I didn't know what to do. You just blacked out all of a sudden and hit your head on the floor. Do you need a doctor?"

For a moment, Christine only looked about blankly, disoriented.

"No," she whispered, flinching when she felt the throb from where she must have struck her head. "I think I am alright, my dear."

The pain in Christine's skull abated as she took in the sight of Miss Hobbes. The older blond woman was looking at her quite oddly with a sort of sulking pout as if she were resentful of her for some reason. She could not imagine why she should be the recipient of such a look. Hadn't she paid her rent on time?

"Well, if you are sure you are recovered, Miss Daae, I really must go now," Jeanette said.

Nodding as she rose to her feet with the help of the two women, Christine agreed that she should leave.

"Hope you ain't gettin' sick, luv," Mildred Hobbes volunteered after the student left. "That would be quite bad for them singin' pipes of yours."

"I shall be all right, I think," Christine smiled wanly. But she did not want to discuss her fainting spell for she realized that her landlady might help to ease her mind. Perhaps then there would be no more nightmares.

"Miss Hobbes, what do you know of the man that lives in the flat above me?" she asked abruptly.

Mildred only stared at her with an unreadable expression before answering with a forced smile.

"Why, it's that old gentleman, Mr. Tomkins, dearie! Haven't you been acquainted?"

"Miss Hobbes, I have reason to believe that man up there is an imposter!" Christine whispered, trying to remain calm. "That is not Mister Tomkins up there! I'm sure of it!"

"Why, of course it is, dearie. Who else would it be?"

Christine turned away from the woman, almost panting with anxiety. How could she explain what she had seen without the woman thinking her mad?

Then she remembered Jeanette's story about the masked man at the music store.

Perhaps she was indeed going mad...


	16. You Belong to Me

**I accidentally downloaded more of this story than I intended to, so if you read this chapter before July 30th, 2005, please re-read the ending. Sorry about the confusion. And disregard what you read before because I may not even want the story to go that way. Thanks.**

* * *

Later that night, sleep proved to be impossible for Christine. Even after her unrest from the night before, she could still find no respite. In order to sleep, one needed peace of mind, yet her mind was consumed with the man upstairs. Repeatedly, the events of the past few days played in her mind. The conversations with "Mr. Tomkins". The real Mr. Tomkins outside of the Savoy Opera House. The mysterious disappearance and reappearance of her novel. Jeanette's encounter at the music store…of a masked man...

How could she sleep?

How would she ever sleep again, knowing that he might be up there, watching her, waiting for her?

Christine stared at the ceiling intently as if she could somehow see through the wood and plaster to the room above by sheer will. What should she do?

A sensible person would call the police. But what would she say? That a masked murderer, assumed dead, was stalking her in the room above? They would think her mad. And even if they did not, she did not have the heart to turn him in. She had betrayed him once before in such a fashion and had bitterly regretted it every day, even when common sense was against her self recriminations.

Turning onto her side, she closed her eyes, futilely attempting to sleep. But not only could she not put the Phantom out of her mind, but she was haunted by memories of that fateful night that she had tried so hard to forget...memories that she knew she would never forget...never…

* * *

_Pitiful creature of darkness...what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you you are not alone..._

Pulling the Phantom's face to her own, Christine braced herself for the repulsion that she would inevitably feel when her mouth would press against those misshapen lips. She was trembling with fear. Yet she had to do it. Raoul's life was at stake.

Breathing deeply, she plunged ahead, assaulting his mouth with her own, hoping to win him over to compassion for Raoul if not for herself. What she had not counted on was a kiss that shook her to the core. It was more than just the sensation of his kiss. She became aware of everything about this man who had been hunting her down for so long. His scent, his strength, his own tremors of passion as he returned her kiss.

Nothing else existed but this man. No murders, no violence, no mystery, no mask…just him…and how he made her feel…as if she were being awakened from a deep sleep…

Christine drew back in confusion, able to do nothing but stare into his turbulent eyes. Raoul's kisses had never felt like this. Nothing in her life had ever felt like this. Raoul's kisses made her feel safe and protected, blanketing her with a warm feeling. Yet this kiss stripped her to the core. It demanded everything of her that she could give.

Again, she fell back into his embrace, unable to stay away from her fallen angel if she had tried. This was right, despite all reason. This was her destiny.

When the kiss ended, she was capable of nothing but looking deeply into his eyes which were alive with so many of his own turbulent emotions. He knew how their contact had affected her for he experienced the same storm.

What could one say after such an experience?

Mutely, she could only blush and smile shyly with anticipation for her wedding night...

But then he broke down in tears and pulled away from her.

Loosening Raoul from his bonds, the Phantom shouted at him to take Christine and go. There was no time for further thought or action. The mob was coming upon them, hungry for the killer's blood. Yet she still returned one last time to give him her ring.

Could she ever forget the sad sight before her of the Phantom crouching over his music box, singing sadly to himself in the dark, waiting for his own death at the hands of the mob? Could she ever the way that he looked back at her with such hope in his eyes that she would stay?

_Christine, I love you…_

How had she managed to walk away? Everything in her wanted to stay by his side.

Yet the Princess was supposed to marry the Prince and live Happily Ever After. There was no other choice than that, was there?

Even as she reunited with her fiancé upon the underground lake, Christine could not keep from looking back at her Angel until he had disappeared out of her sight forever.

She would not cry, she promised herself. If she started to cry, she would never stop.

So instead Christine reasoned to herself. She could not love a man who was a killer. She could not live in darkness the rest of her days. She could not forsake the man she had promised to marry. She could not give her heart, soul and body to a man who had tried to blackmail her into some sort of illegitimate marriage with lethal threats. She would go to Hell for giving herself to such a sinful creature.

But his kiss still burned upon her lips…and his word of love still echoed in her ears…

Even though the Phantom of the Opera had released her, she felt more chained to him than ever before...

* * *

Stooped over a small table that he had acquired for himself, Erik was furiously scratching out musical notes when he was not re-reading passages from his own recently purchased copy of _Wuthering Heights_. At first, he could not seem to get past those first few melodic strains that had reverberated throughout his mind. Yet once he had started, the music started to come to him just like a faithful lover. Painstakingly, he continued to work through his sluggish brain and imagination. Now the muse of creativity had him firmly in her grasp as he now seemed to be capable of doing nothing but writing his music. 

The knock on the door infuriated him. It was the middle of the night! Who was fool enough to disturb him now?

His stomach lurched when he thought of Mildred Hobbes. If that saucy wench thought that she could come into his room at night and seduce him, she was sadly mistaken. In fact, if she dared to darken his door, he was sure that he would throttle her to death and think nothing of it.

"What the devil do you want?" he growled out at the door.

"Mr. Tomkins?" the soft voice called out. "It's Christine Daae."

For a moment, his world shook off of its axis. Christine! What on earth was she doing here at this time of the night!

"Please, I must speak to you...it is quite important..."

He reached for his mask and slid it over his face, although why he did so, he did not know as she would not see him. It was merely out of pure habit now, he supposed. It was in his nature to hide, even if he was only going to hear her voice through the crack of the door.

"Could you not wait until the morning, child?" he rasped, hiding behind the door. "I am an old man and not accustomed to being awake at this time of..."

Before Erik could finish his sentence, the door slammed towards his face suddenly, completely taking him off guard. Only due to luck and his own natural grace had he not fallen onto his backside in an embarrassing heap! And he could not help but be impressed for he had no idea that Christine was capable of such swiftness and strength.

Yet the sight of her made him forget all other thoughts.

With her long brown tresses flowing down her back, wearing a white silken nightgown covered with a floral-printed robe, she looked like an avenging angel as she stood before him. Her lovely eyes were wide with shock and surprise at the sight of him, although she must have suspected of his existence to justify her actions.

Oh, it had been so long since Erik had seen her like this…so painfully close! Not from a distance on a busy street corner, not on a stage or in the arms of her Vicomte...but here, alone with him, her skin aglow in the candlelight of his small room.

For a few tense moments, they were silent as they only stared at each other in shock. Erik's heart was beating so fast he was sure that he would die at any second. What was she thinking? Was she afraid? Was she angry? Had she missed him?

Finally, she tore her eyes from his gaze and looked about the room, noting his odd sense of decoration. She took in the black curtains and the lit candles. He could see her horror as she made the association between this refurbished room and his old home in the catacombs.

His heart sank as he witnessed her crumple up with emotion as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Why?" Christine cried out violently, looking upon him again. For a moment, she paled as if she were going to faint and sunk down to her knees hard upon the floor.

Out of sheer protective instinct, Erik rushed to her side, kneeling beside her prostrate form in the dark.

"Christine, are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, reaching out for her arm. She was in distress. And he tried hard not to think about the sweet softness of her skin or the view of her ample breasts heaving from beneath her gown.

She pulled away from his touch as if he had scalded her.

Erik swallowed with an effort. Even after having known another woman, even after all the time that had passed, her rejection still cut into him with the silent swiftness of a dagger.

Of course, nothing had changed between them! His dreams of Christine had been only that…dreams…but the reality of her disgust and hatred of him was there right before his eyes.

Coming here to London had been a mistake. Following her had only opened up those gashed wounds yet again.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered softly, keeping her head bowed, unable to even look upon his frightening masked visage. "Everyone thought you were dead."

"The papers exaggerated my state of health a bit…" he responded blithely. "Sorry if I've disappointed you."

Damned fool, he cursed at himself. What a time to make such a poor joke! Yet he did not know how else to respond. And he was determined not to break down in the face of her repulsion. So he resorted to his black sense of humor.

She said nothing but only looked out at him from the dark, looking horribly frail.

"After the fire, the _gendarmes_ had tried to hunt me down every day," he explained. "It was easy enough to fake my death with an old skeleton I knew about from the catacombs. And of course, I had some help from my Persian friend."

"And you deceived everyone…" she stated, looking at him pointedly with a pained look in her eyes.

"Merely a matter of survival," he answered. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually cared about my demise, Christine?"

She did not answer him.

"Is that why you did not marry your dashing Vicomte? Out of grief for me? I suppose a bride would look a sad sight wearing a black gown on such a festive occasion…HA HA HA!"

Erik hated himself when he was this way, yet he could not help himself. He knew he was being the worse sort of blackguard. But he kept on laughing with his loud maniacal hysteria. It was either that or give in to the despair ripping at his guts.

"Stop it!" she cried out, rising to her feet. "I hate it when you are like this!"

Erik did not know if she meant his cold manner, his black sense of humor or his laughter. Yet he was almost relieved when she began to beat upon his chest with her fists. Her assault almost felt good. He wanted her to beat some sense into him. He did nothing to stop her pounding away at him until she wore herself out.

"Why are you here?" she pleaded, crying. "Why?"

"I had heard there was no wedding," he responded. "I merely wanted to make sure you did not get your fool self killed when you ran off to parts unknown, an unprotected woman in a foreign land."

"And I'm supposed to believe you when you say that?"

"It is the truth."

"The truth!" she shouted, her small body tense and wracked with rage. "What do you know of truth? You lied to me about being an Angel of Music! You lied to me about being sent from my father! You lied about being a ghost! You lied to me about wanting nothing from me but to share your music with me! You lied about being Mr. Tomkins! You even lied about dying!"

Erik turned away from her, unable to stomach her words, unwilling to hear them. What did this naïve child know about survival? The Bible could preach away about falsehoods, but he had learned the hard way that sometimes violence and deception was the only way to survive in this rotten world that he had been cursed in. From birth, he had been destined to sin. How could he do otherwise with such a face?

He should never have come here. How much more did he have to see and hear before he got it into his thick skull that she never wanted to have anything to do with him again?

"Thank you so much for the Sunday School lesson," he snarled.

"You are right, of course," he said woodenly. "I am a monster of the most sadistic kind…"

"And now you have followed me here to London!" she continued, unheeding of his words.

The most horrible sobs wanted to escape from his chest. He wanted to scratch and screech and rage at all mankind for being denied this woman who had such a hold over him for so long. He wanted to throw himself at her skirts and plead for her forgiveness. A few months ago, he would have done so without hesitation.

But then he felt the briefest touch of fingers running through his hair...his real hair and not the dashing black-haired wig that he wore so often that it was practically as much of a second skin as his mask. When she had arrived at the door, there had been no time to retrieve his wig.

"God help me!" Christine cried, her voice trembling with emotion. "God help me!"

Suddenly, he was whirled about and enveloped in her embrace. Before he could even recover from the shock of contact, she had ripped off his mask. And before he could protest her bold action, she pressed baby kisses all along his bare mottled cheek. He could not have been more surprised if she had ripped his clothes off in a heated passion.

And the scent of roses in her hair assaulted his senses. He felt her slim body pressing against his own. He could hear her small gasps of surprised excitement as she continued to torment him with her lips. And he was lost…


	17. Savor Each Sensation

**For any of you who read the last chapter before 7/30/05, I regret to say that you read stuff at the end of the chapter that I did not mean to update and that you weren't supposed to read yet! So sorry. I was on my way out of town and was hurriedly updating before leaving. I forgot I had a little extra at the end of the chapter that was meant for later. Please look at the previous chapter to see where it was supposed to really end.**

* * *

She had not meant to kiss him...

All Christine had wanted was to know the truth. And suddenly he was there, everywhere...overpowering her senses and emotions until she could not hold back her tears. She could not help but to fall down upon her knees in pain. She could not stop herself from lashing out at him with words of anger and betrayal. Once more, she felt like a helpless puppet in her own life, used and manipulated. How many tears had she shed for him in grief? And here he was alive and well, still determined to follow her to the grave...

Nothing had changed. Erik still even dressed the same familiar outfit of a silken shirt of white and dark pants. He looked the same with his slicked back hair and unyielding mask. He still laughed at her cruelly, making inappropriate jokes, scaring her with his wild laughter.

And yet when he said he would go away from London, she could hear the sadness and pain in his voice. Just like when she had taken off his mask for the first time in the darkness of his lair. Just like when she had left him alone with his music box.

She had not meant to kiss him...

She had only meant to touch him with a comforting softness as if she were his mother. But she felt the scars upon his back through the silk of his shirt. And images came to her from the stories that she had heard from Raoul. He recollected Madame Giry's claims of Erik living life in a cage at a gypsy fair, beaten into submission by his cruel taunting masters who were determined to gain profit from his misery. As she felt the lines of the damaged flesh, she knew that the stories were indeed true. As she imagined the man before her so abused, her anger softened.

More than anything else in the world, she yearned to take away all of the pain in his life that he had ever known. She knew that it was impossible. She was not the savior that he always seemed to think that she was. She would never be able to erase all of his memories or ease all of his hurt. She was only a woman, not an angel on a pedestal.

But perhaps there was a way for them...

If they could only forget their pasts of shame and pain, of mourning and loneliness...if only for tonight...

She had not meant to kiss him...

But before she knew it, she pulled the offending mask off his face, not wanting the barrier between them any longer. She kissed his ruined cheek, knowing no repulsion for his imperfection was a part of him. And she felt his misshapen soft lips press against her mouth, demanding more of what she had only just begun to give. Trapped in the circle of his arms, she felt his tongue search inside of her mouth and she nearly pulled away in shock. Even Raoul had never dared to do such a scandalous thing! Yet if this is what pleased Erik, she would let him caress her tongue with his own for it did not hurt. In fact, she rather like the shared intimacy, discovering the taste of him.

All thoughts of the past were gone now as she could only be aware of the present, of what it felt like to be a lover for the first time, of what it was like to finally give in to her tormenting angel and ghost.

Christine wondered if he had known another woman. He seemed to move with a sort of confidence, a slow sureness that had been lacking before. Even in all of her ignorance of the ways of the flesh, she sensed the change in him. Such a thought that another woman may have known him in such a way made her horribly upset, so she pushed it out of her mind stubbornly. Whoever she had been, she was not here now.

With a soft gasp, Christine felt the pressure of a mattress at the back of her legs. When had she allowed him to take her into his bedroom? In this surreal atmosphere of night and candles, even the simple apartment seemed like a maze in itself. In any case, she must have blindly followed him where he had led her, too lost in his kiss to care where they were going.

Erik coaxed her down upon her back, pulling feverishly at her nightgown until her breasts were naked before him. She meant to say that such a thing was wrong, that they were not married and that he should not touch her in such a way. Yet when he buried his face into her exposed flesh, hungrily nuzzling at her nipples, all morals and inhibitions fled and she could only mew in helpless pleasure.

Her curious and greedy fingers ran through the thin hair along his scalp, along the back of his neck, down the broad expanse of his scarred back. Unable to find the breath to voice what she wanted, she yanked at his shirt until she was able to slide her fingers up under the silken cloth, feeling the scarred flesh of his back. The touch of his skin combined with his insistent mouth upon her breasts made her feel so strange, just like she had felt in her last dream. Her insides were melting and weeping and opening up to him.

"Please..." she begged, not even knowing what exactly she was pleading for.

His masculine grunt of satisfaction only made her ache more.

Pulling away from her breasts, he impatiently ripped away at her nightgown and her undergarments until she was completely naked underneath him. She knew that trying to cover herself with her hands was pointless. She could do nothing but close her eyes and blush furiously.

"You are so beautiful, Angel," he murmured as his mouth wandered along her shoulder, down her arm, upon her bare stomach. "So beautiful..."

When she realized where he intended to kiss her next, she stiffened in shock and fear.

"Erik, no!" she cried out.

"Let me love you, my Angel," he whispered, coaxing her thighs open wide. "Let me..."

With an iron grip, he held her hips in place as he buried his mouth down in that forbidden place. At first, she squirmed about in horrid embarrassment, but her piety caved in to the hunger being stoked in her loins. Oh, this had to be the worst sort of sin! Yet her immoral body craved more of this sort of kissing. And the sensations seemed to intensify and tighten until she was sure that she would go mad, forever in a state of lust as he kept on with his sweet torture.

Making a small sound of distress, Christine even tried to move away, unable to cope with the feelings.

"Don't be afraid..." he said gently. "Let it happen, love."

Persistently, he kept teasing her with his mouth until she began to scream and shake when the most wonderful waves of pleasure and release assaulted her again and again. Too far gone to feel shame, she thrust up her hips against him, clinging on to the feelings for as long as she could.

After he had drained every ounce of pleasure that he could out of her body, Erik then pulled her to his side and stroked her hair lovingly. Even though the violent release was over, Christine still felt strange, overcome with the most potent relaxation, feeling as if she were floating and on the edge of passing out into a deep sleep.

"Oh, Christine..." he whispered huskily into her ear. "Christine...does this not feel so right, so splendid? We were always meant to be like this. Always..."

She did not answer him, but only panted, still recovering from the experience.

"May I know you as a husband knows a wife, Christine?" he asked. "I know we are not married yet; but if you like, we shall marry on the morrow. I want you so much, my love."

"Yes," she whispered without a second thought. "I belong to you, Erik. Only you..."

As he undressed, Christine took in the sight of him. He was so handsome, every part of him. Even when she saw the large length of his manhood, she was no longer afraid of him but admiring. She knew there would be inevitable pain with their joining, but she wanted to be with him in every way that she could. Her Angel had come back to her. And she would spend the rest of her life making him happy.

"You're so beautiful..." she sighed in feminine appreciation, smiling softly in the candlelight.

"You're the first person to ever tell me such a horrid lie!" he teased with a soft smile before lowering himself next to her on the bed.

The naked weight and feel of him was exquisite. He must have felt the same as she heard his soft exclamation as his naked chest rubbed against her own. Even when she thought that any further physical yearning on her part was impossible, she needed more of him. She wanted to feel him inside of her, taking her and claiming her. She wished that she had the words to tell him how happy she was. No, it was not happiness, but deeper than that. Burying her face into his shoulder, she began to feverishly plant baby kisses along his flesh, not knowing how else to express herself.

"You'll be mine forever, Christine," he crooned. "Forever."

"Yes," she answered urgently, throwing her arms about him. "Yes."

Not until she heard Erik curse did she even know that something was wrong.

Then she heard the knocking sound at the door.

"Ignore it," Erik ordered harshly.

But whether they liked it or not, they were cruelly yanked from their world of love.

"FIRE! You got to get out at once!"

Christine recognized the voice as that of Mildred Hobbes.

"There's a fire! Run for your lives!"


	18. Though You Turn From Me

Erik paced the hallways of the boarding house in a state of extreme rage and frustration in the dead of night, clenching and unclenching his fists in a steady rhythm.

Everything had been going so well. No, that was an insult to his lover. Everything had been paradise.

At last, he had his sweet Christine exactly the way he had dreamed of her for so long, naked and quivering underneath him. Despite his past experience with the 'joys of the flesh', she was still the only woman for him and always would be. Although he remembered his past interludes with the prostitute Elissa distastefully, he could not completely regret those sessions. In fact, it had proved to be for the best as he had learned all too well how to please a woman. So Erik took complete advantage of Christine's innocence, determined to make her burn so hotly for him that she would never again turn her sights to any other man, no matter how wealthy or handsome.

Thus, he feasted upon her blushing flesh, reveling in every shocked gasp and pleasured sigh that escaped from her lips. With deliberate slowness, he explored the taste and touch of her body, memorizing the smallest details of her so that he should never lose the image from his mind. The sight of how she looked, with her long dark curls cascading about her bare white shoulders, would be eternally etched into his memory like that of a beloved painting. He would always recall her small coral nipples, eagerly taut and awaiting his touch...her soft pink lips, trembling as he once again became her teacher and master, commanding her with his kisses...her slim womanly thighs hesitantly spreading for him, allowing him entrance into heaven...her secret flesh, swollen and weeping for him and him alone...

More often than not, Erik had cursed his existence, fervently wishing that his mother had just killed him as an infant and had spared him a lifetime of pain. Yet, during those moments of shared intimacies with Christine, he had never before had so much he wanted to live for. There was no mask or murder, no repulsion or fear...just Christine...just his Angel with a soft smile on her lips as she embraced his naked body shyly, surrendering to him completely.

Oh, how he loved her!

In the past, after Christine had fled from him with her Vicomte, he had often wondered if perhaps his feelings for her had been merely a mixture of obsession, loneliness and madness. Even as he screamed out his love for her in the lonely night, a part of him still wondered if he even knew what love was, having never experienced it from anyone. But now he knew it in his soul. He would walk through fire for her. He would die for her. He would do anything that she commanded...anything except leave her...

Then that blasted landlady, the Hobbes woman, ruined everything!

As soon as he had heard Mildred's voice, Erik knew that her presence could bode no good. Despite her cries of emergency, he had been reluctant to leave Christine's side and get dressed. Yet his lover was terrified that they would be scorched to death as she hurriedly sprang up from the bed. When he suggested that perhaps they should try to exit the building in different directions, she would hear none of it, remarking that she would rather have her reputation ruined than burn or die by fire. Frantically throwing her nightgown over her head, she held the ripped edges tightly over her breasts, unable to find her robe and uncaring. With exasperation, he retrieved his mask and cape before they both descended the staircase.

Perhaps Christine's memory was befuddled by fear, confusion or lust, but it was obvious that she had no recollection of the fire at the Paris Opera House. If she had, she would have seen right away that this was not nearly the inferno that the landlady would have had them believe. Indeed, when they reached the bottom floor, he was disgusted to see that it was only a small stove fire which Mildred could have easily put out herself.

How he yearned to throttle the woman! Whether she had ulterior motives or was simply a fool, either sin was unforgivable in his opinion, especially this night when he had almost attained everything that he had ever desired.

When he caught sight of Mildred outside of the kitchen on the first floor, he could have sworn that the frizzy-haired demon had a sadistic grin on her face as she spied them together on the steps. And then the damned bitch had the gall to suddenly change her expression, staring at Christine with an open mouth and wide eyes in pretended shock at her disheveled appearance. As if Mildred Hobbes was not in the habit of grabbing strangers and forcing her attentions upon them!

Immediately, the landlady's face fell into a mask of distress as she hurried to his side, clutching at his wrist.

"Please, sir!" she begged. "Please, you got to put out that bloody fire! What about that there cape you got? Think that would be of any use to gettin' it put out?"

Erik had half a mind to fling the wretched woman onto the fire himself before he was going to leave Christine's side and ruin his cape. Yet he noticed that there were no able-bodied men about. And Christine was looking at him with hopeful eyes, forcing him to play the hero. Silently, he nodded and began extinguishing the flames with his cape, doing his best to keep his back turned and his face hidden from view as he did so.

That was when he saw Mildred Hobbes whisper into Christine's ear. He had no way of knowing what she had said, but whatever had transpired, the damage had been done for he saw his lover become as pale as a ghost. With a flustered motion, she hurriedly left the scene of the accident as soon as she could and fled to her room upstairs.

As quickly as he could, Erik followed Christine to her room. Awkwardly, he knocked upon her door. Being a creature who was accustomed to simply taking whatever he desired, he was not used to such trivial details as locked doors.

"Christine...?" he called out to her. "The fire's all out now, my dear. May I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Please let me in, Angel..."

"No, Erik, leave me alone!" she cried out. "What we did was wrong! It was a shameful sin!"

Oh, was that all she was worried about? Erik shook his head in amusement at her silly religious fears.

"You must not feel that way, my love," he cajoled. "We shall marry at once if you wish it."

Even with his promises, Erik's mind raced. Surely there was some official who could be bribed into marrying them with no trouble.

"I...I do not know if I wish to marry right now..."

No! No, by God, this would not happen! He would not lose her again!

"Christine," he started, struggling to keep his voice calm. "My dear, after all we have shared, it is only proper that we should marry. I took horrible advantage of your innocence and reputation."

"No...Erik, please...I need time to think..."

What was there to think about, damn it? They loved each other! Why did women always have to think so damned much?

"Darling, there is really nothing to think about. Surely you know now that we were meant to be..."

"This is too soon, Erik," she responded. "So much has happened so fast. I am just not ready to marry you yet..."

Oh, his heart was breaking! He wanted nothing more than to share the rest of his life with her. How could she have such reluctance and doubt?

The inevitable happened. His pain hardened into hot anger.

"You never seemed so damned prudent about marrying the Vicomte right away!" he snapped.

"I did not marry him though, did I!" she responded, her voice equally as furious. "And he was always a gentleman! He never would have..." She stopped, unable to speak of their prior activity.

With a sneer, he could almost envision how she must have looked with her maidenly blush as she stammered.

"I do not recall hearing you begging me to stop, Mademoiselle Daae," he jeered coldly. "I was under the foolish impression that you were rather enjoying it."

"Well, you seduced me so quickly that I didn't have a chance to..."

"I SEDUCED YOU!"

"Erik, keep your voice down!"

"I seduced you, did I!" he raged, uncaring if the whole building heard him. "I was going to leave London at once, but then you started to throw your arms around me and kiss me! If anyone is the seducer between the two of us, it is you, you cruel viper!"

"How dare you!" He heard her foot stamp in outrage. "Need I remind you that you are the one who followed me here to London, pretending that you were dead the whole time! I did not mean to kiss you at all, but you made me feel sorry for you, like you always do..."

"You experienced passion, not pity, Christine!" he hissed. "Do not lie to me or to yourself!"

"I do not wish to discuss it anymore. I want to go to bed. I'm tired!"

The thought of spending another lonely night without her was unbearable. Yet there was nothing but silence, despite his threats and pleadings. With hopeless resignation, he hung his head sadly. There was nothing more to be done...at least not on this night...

Consumed with mixed emotions, Erik moved away from her door. Nothing would be gained by loitering about like a randy tomcat. Yet his thwarted passion made him so angry that he was consumed with a different sort of lust...the lust for blood...

Snarling, Erik made his way towards the bottom floor where Mildred Hobbes lived.

He would make her pay!


	19. To Ensnare Our Clever Friend

Mildred Hobbes had suffered jealousy plenty of times. Having lived a life always on the outside looking in, she had grown hardened to seeing beautiful women with handsome husbands by their side, riding in their fancy carriages while wearing expensive clothes. Indeed, poverty and jealousy indeed to go hand in hand.

Yet never had she felt so incensed as when she heard Christine's soft sounds of pleasure coming from within the Phantom's room.

Often, Mildred walked by his room on the top floor, the room of 'Mr. Tomkins', clearing out any refuse that may have been left in the hallways, dusting off the end tables and such. But she knew that she was drawn to linger outside, waiting for him to come out. When she heard a woman's passionate cries behind his door, it did not take too much deduction to realize that the slattern was Christine Daae herself!

Mildred wanted to scream with rage and frustration.

What right had Christine Daae to enjoy the Phantom's touch? Had she not rejected him in front all of Paris while engaging in a trap to have him shot down like a dog? As for the Phantom, he needed to see that there were other options for him. Better options. Options such as herself. She knew that she was no prize, but she had to better than that little missish Daae girl. She was a real woman and would give him a taste of real passion. And she would hold back nothing.

Mildred knew that she had to act and to act fast. So she took a very great chance, purposely setting the fire in the downstairs kitchen.

When she saw the Phantom and Christine exit from the top floor, all disheveled and perspiring, she could not help but smile in satisfaction. The Phantom looked predictably angry at being disturbed. But Miss Daae was a sight indeed, all blushing and disturbed with the most distressed look in her big blue eyes. She could not resist but to scorch her with the most condemning look.

Once she had persuaded the Phantom to put out the fire, she could not help but add fuel to the fire by whispering in Christine's ear.

"I'm shocked, Miss Daae, a nice little Catholic girl like you carryin' on so with a man in his room like that, livin' in sin. What would your students think? I won't 'ave disgraceful carryin' on goin' on in my boardin' house!"

Christine Daae went as pale as a sheet as she heard Mildred's condemning words. She nodded dumbly before turning at once to leave and go back to the sanctity of her own room.

Mildred nodded with satisfaction. This was going to be much easier than she had thought it would be.

Batting her eyes furiously, she rewarded the Phantom with a big smile after he put out the fire.

"My hero," she crooned, almost wanting to laugh when he practically growled at her before setting off to pursue Christine for the umpteenth time.

Let him go run off to her!

Mildred was confident that Christine would not take him back this time. She was all too well acquainted with those higher-than-thou religious types. Images of fire and brimstone were burning in front of Miss Daae's eyes. And the Phantom would not be enjoying anymore of her favors this night.

Returning to her own room on the first floor, Mildred donned her most flattering and revealing robe. It was not made out of silk and satin, not one of those fancy affairs that she was sure that Christine owned. Yet it would get the job done should she receive her visitor. And she would receive her visitor soon. Oh, yes, she was counting on it.

Consumed with sexual frustration and rage, he would be a virtual tiger, ready to pounce at her. And she would be all too ready to take him. In fact, she was eager for it. So many nights she had spent dreaming of him that she would have him any way she could, even in an angry rage. In fact, the prospect of rough sex at the hands of the masked man made her shiver with excitement.

With the patience of a black widow spider, Mildred awaited her prey, admiring herself in the mirror, pinching at her cheeks and smoothing her hair. She even thought to put on a little bit of perfume. After all, she rarely had occasion to use the stuff.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway outside of her door. Although she was no actress, Mildred recognized her cue.

When she opened her door, she was not disappointed to feel the gloved hand once more at her throat. Her satisfaction was short-lived however when she was hurled against the wall of her own living room.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she held back her scream.

"Just what was the meaning of that pantomime out there?" the Phantom snarled at her, his eyes ablaze with fury. "I know you are an idiotic woman, but even a simpleton such as you could have put out that fire!"

"Can't seem to put nothin' past you, can I, dearie?"

Mildred gazed at the Phantom hungrily. With his ruffled shirt slightly open, exposing the masculine hairs on his chest, he was indeed a sight for sore eyes. She yearned to lick at the sweat at his neck like an animal in heat. His hair (or was it a wig?) was in disarray all about. No more he was the prim and proper dark stranger in the shadows, but a furious beast ready to tear her apart. Lord above, how she wanted him!

"Stop looking at me like that!" he roared. "I do not want you! So cease your meddlesome interfering in my life before I kill you!"

"Killin' me would be a very foolish thing to do, Mr. Phantom of the Opera," Mildred responded with a small smile. "Oh, yes, dearie, I know all about you."

He turned away from her in an effort for her not to see his shock at her revelation.

"Then you know I shall not hesitate to kill you!"

"I think not, Phantom," she laughed. "What would that lady friend of yours, that little songbird, think if you were to be a nasty old murderer again? Besides, if anythin' happens to me, the police'll know about it real quick!"

The Phantom faced her in a rage and gripped at her arms tightly.

"You damned fool, I eluded all of the police in Paris the night I set the Garnier Opera House on fire! You think I am afraid of your threats?"

"I think you're afraid of that fancy gentleman findin' out where you are, right at the side of his sweetie...and I have his address...oh, yes, dearie..."

His grasp loosened.

"Oh, yes," she grinned. "He'll know all about where his lady love is and all about the evil monster come to trap her in the room above. 'Ow long do you suppose your love affair will last then?"

The Phantom was silent, deadly so.

"What do you want from me?" he asked in low tones.

"I just want you to be nice to me, ducky," she answered with a lascivious grin. "That's all. Just to be nice to me."

* * *

Christine slept.

For a while, she slept deeply, exhausted from all of the violent emotions and the passions of the night. But in the wee hours of the morning, she once again began her ritual of tossing and turning. And Erik's face was there before her more than ever now...

She had been a fool to take Mildred Hobbes' words to heart so. What could the landlady possibly know of her relationship with Erik? She only saw them leave together in a state of undress. But she did not know the history of all they had gone through, of all that they had been to one another.

Erik was back. Hers at last. If she would just stop being afraid...of Erik...of going to hell...of herself...

Christine knew in her heart that he would never hurt her. She knew that if she loved him, he would no longer yearn to kill and hurt innocent people. She could not release him from all of his pain, but she could try to make him at least know a degree of happiness. And as for herself, perhaps she would find peace again. No longer would she be held captive to the strange wild yearnings in her body every time that she thought on him. No longer would she be consumed with regret and sadness for the past. Perhaps she too would be happy.

In their own way, they had become orphans lost in the dark. She was forced into solitude from the death of her father. He was forced into a life of loneliness from birth, cursed and hated for his face. They needed each other.

While his sadness tore at her heart, she could live with it for she understood it. She understood him. And he understood her. He knew her better than she knew herself.

If God truly did not want her to be with this man, why would He allow them to come together once more? Was it a test that she was meant to endure, using all of her will to resist him? Or was it a sign that they were meant to be together? After all, if their union was sanctified by marriage, would it be wrong? And could he not be reformed and find forgiveness for his sins?

Once more, she climbed up the stairway to his room. She had to talk to him.

"Erik?" she called softly.

There was no answer.

"I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Erik," she continued, swallowing and trying to summon up her courage. "I never meant to hurt you. You must believe me. It is just that so much has happened, you see? And I am so terribly confused. It seems like I have been confused for such a long time now."

When there was still only silence, she felt the panic rise in her throat that he was angry with her.

"I never married Raoul because I knew it was wrong, that I could not bear to be his wife. At the gravesite of my father, he confronted me and said that all along, you had been in my heart. And, Erik, he was right! God help me, he was right! And when I thought you were dead...if you only knew how I had suffered with regret and missing you..."

The quiet was a torture, tearing into her soul.

"Please know that I never meant to hurt you...please...my Angel...please...I love..."

She stopped herself, covering her lips with her trembling fingers.

Never before had she said those words to anyone, not since her beloved father passed away. Not even to Raoul did she say those words, although he had said them to her often. And yet now, it seemed so easy. As if the emotion and the words were all there just waiting for him and dying to come out.

"I love you, Angel..." she continued, determined to finally admit her feelings, both to him and to herself. "And I do want to marry you. We could make a fresh start here in London, just the two of us. And the past would not matter any more. We should never speak of it again. We could be happy, couldn't we?"

Still, there was no stirring. Nothing.

Perhaps Erik was asleep. Perhaps she would never see him again. Perhaps...

There was no point in driving herself mad with further questions that would not be answered this night.

Sadly, Christine returned to her lonely bed.


	20. Come to Me, Angel of Music

**I apologize for taking so long to update. Unfortunately, with my workplace going insane and my daughter's first birthday party, real life has been a bit hectic. Hopefully, things will settle down soon!**

* * *

Erik had not been so consumed with rage since that fateful night at the Paris Opera House.

_Be nice to me..._

Those words, with all of their nasty implications, reverberated through his skull repeatedly as he glared at the landlady standing before him, hands upon her hips, waiting expectantly. Just who did this baggage think that she was to blackmail him...the Phantom of the Opera...into being some sort of sexual slave to do her bidding!

Unwanted memories from those dark days of Erik's past came flooding back to him. Try as he might to blight the hated images out of his mind, they returned to his psyche with full force. The gypsy carnival fairgrounds... the "Devil's Child"... perverse men rubbing at their crotches as they watched the fat gypsy barker lash at his bare back with a whip...

Erik hated being used so coarsely as an object of perverse sexuality then...and he hated it now. Even so, his body involuntarily jolted when Mildred Hobbes, apparently taking his silence as encouragement, pressed against him, running her palms along his shoulders. He flinched from her touch, yet his dumb manhood stood at immediate attention. Despite the fact that this woman was wresting both control and choice from him, he was still all too human, having spent a life denied such pleasures.

As he suffered another one of her forced kissed, he found that her lips were not unpleasant. They were simply not ambrosia, like Christine's beautiful lips. They were the wrong lips.

But why should he think on Christine when she had once more coldheartedly rejected him?

For a few insane seconds, Erik considered giving Mildred what she wanted so badly and then some. He would take her against the wall of her room like a common whore, using her callously and roughly, teaching her a lesson to toy with him. Even those sordid couplings with Elissa would seem like a sweet love affair compared to what he would do with this slattern. Yet the laughing look in her knowing eyes as she pulled away from the kiss cut his desires short. She was entirely too sure of herself, entirely too convinced that she had him at her mercy.

The realization was like a bucket of ice cold water splashed upon him.

No, he would not succumb to this brazen hussy and her demands! Just because he was doomed to hide behind a mask...just because he was an ugly and lonely man...did not mean that he was a pathetic desperate fool!

Mildred Hobbes had manipulated him into this position, deliberately wresting him away from his true love's side with her lies about a horrible fire. As if that were not heinous enough, he was still sure that somehow Mildred had whispered words into Christine's ear that made poisoned her against him.

The landlady's perception of him was not only degrading but insulting. She saw him not as a man but as a stupid monster and wanted to be taken by him as such. Oh, he would make her pay for such a humiliation in a way that she would least expect!

So be it!

She would have her monster!

Savagely, he gripped her face and kissed her hard. While she moaned with surprised anticipation, he began to feel that other lust...bloodlust...

Oh, yes, all he would have to do is tighten his hands around her slim throat and squeeze. He would break her neck like a twig! Oh, yes, the bitch would dance to a different tune then, wouldn't she? He craved to see her hungry eyes widen and roll back in her head as she fought for breath while he crushed her windpipe.

But then the image of Mildred twitching in the throes of death dissolved into another picture...that of Christine softly smiling at him with trust in her eyes as she lay quivering underneath him, surrendering to him completely...

Try as he might, he could not blight Christine's haunting face from his mind. If Erik went back to his old habits of snuffing out people, no matter how useless they may be, he knew that he would lose any hope of ever winning her back. He had no religious or moral qualms about murder. But he could not take the chance of losing her forever, not when he was so close...

Erik almost laughed with self-disgust. Christine was now not only the unattainable love that he would never have, but had also become his conscience as well. At least, so it seemed.

Pushed to take another road, he then decided on an action that he heretofore would have considered unthinkable. Grasping at the mask which had served to hide him from the cruelty of the world, he deliberately ripped it off, revealing his ugliness in all of its wretched glory to this intruder of a woman. Rather than bracing himself for her revulsion, he invited it. Indeed, he used his cursed face as a valuable weapon against her.

Erik was not disappointed when Mildred's large eyes widen with disgust and fear at the sight of his naked face. Of course, he expected nothing less. Never did he think he would feel satisfied with pleasure at the sound of her halting gagging gasps. Sadistically, he pressed the rotted flesh of his face against her cheek and mouth, holding her tightly as she squirmed against him in frantic terror.

"Nooooohh..." she moaned, hitting and kicking at him. "Oh, God! Get away from me!"

"What is the matter, sweetheart?" he growled. "You no longer want to play?"

Mildred's shrieks dissolved into helpless sobs as she pleaded for him to release her.

"Do you not burn for the kiss of the Phantom, my sweet? Are you not mad with wanting?"

"God!" she shrieked out in fear. "Oh, God, help me!"

Satisfied that the woman had received her deserved comeuppance, Erik allowed her to escape his clutches. Like a flash, she had run through the front door and into the night.

Erik's victory was fleeting however. Mildred was probably headed straight for the police. And if he could not rely on the permanent solution of providing Mildred with an unfortunate "accident", he had no choice but to escape this boarding house at once.

If it were not for Christine, the solution would have been an ideal one, for he wanted nothing more than to bury himself back into the comforting bowels of the earth. As usual, life above ground with the human race was proving to be too much of a trial for him. Even in his darkness and solitude, he was less lonely in his makeshift home than he was above ground, forced once more to deal with foolish people who preferred to fear and hate him rather than make any attempt at understanding.

But what of Christine?

He would not even be in this wretched country were it not for her. Indeed, he had turned his whole life upside down for her. Even with all of her maidenly protestations, he could not allow her to leave him again.

No, he would take her with him! And she would be made to see reason! Surely, with some persuasion in a quiet solitary place, someplace with no loathsome intruders like Raoul de Chagny or Mildred Hobbes, Christine would come to see that they could not live without each other.

But first, he would have to relocate at once. The exercise should not be too difficult. Fortunately, since he had next to nothing in the way of possessions, he had nothing to lose. But he still had plenty of funds saved up for another home. After all, he had never intended to stay in this ramshackle boarding house for long anyway. He had only come here to fetch Christine.

After hurriedly returning to his room in order to retrieve his violin case, Erik went off in the night in search for a new home in this strange new country.

* * *

As the days and nights passed in horrid silence, Christine merely went through the motions of life. 

How long had it been? A week? And there had been no sign of Erik. As she had feared, he had apparently lost patience with her silliness and her indecision. He had left her for good, so it seemed. She had thought she had lost him in death. Now she lost him in a lover's quarrel. And they had never even been lovers, she thought sadly as she sat upon her settee, having just completed a music lesson with Geraldine.

Sipping at her tea, sitting stiffly upright in a simple dress of black, Christine tried to fall back into her old routine of teaching and living quietly in peace. But it was no use now for there was no peace. It seemed that she would never know peace again.

She should have opened her door to him! She should have married him! She should have undressed and let him do as he wanted with her! Perhaps then these fires of passion would at last leave them alone and they could resume their lives somehow. Yet, she knew that some of the mystery of lovemaking had disappeared after he had kissed her body in that sinful way. She had hoped that having found that small amount of satisfaction, she could go on as before. She could go to confession, put that act behind her and stay pure. Yet she could not forget that night and what he had done. And she wanted...she wanted more and more...all that he could give her...

Tears of frustration and confusion rolled down her cheeks for the umpteenth time. What did it matter now? Now that he was gone...

Christine hated herself for crying. It was for the best that he had gone! Of course, it was for the best! Now she could live with herself, being pure in soul and body, devoted to her music and the memory of her father. For what would she be with Erik? A fallen woman in love with a murderer?

And she did love him. That much she could not deny. She loved him with everything in her. Yet love could not possibly be enough to heal the wounds of the past. It could not be enough to solve the inevitable problems that would arise in the future.

How could love survive with a man like Erik?

As much as Christine hated to think about it, she could not allow herself to forget that he had murdered. And as sad as his life was, as much as his mournful eyes and voice pulled at her heartstrings, she had to remember that he was insane. Once he had tired of her, would he not murder her too? The thought was a horribly bleak one, but one that she could not ignore.

Even now, there was a price on his head in London, it seemed. The local police had been repeatedly combing through the boarding house ever since his disappearance, paying special attention to the top floor at the room where he had been staying. What had he done now? Had he killed someone else?

One evening, the police had even come to question her, accompanied by Mildred Hobbes.

"Ask 'er about it," Mildred encouraged them. "She knows all about 'im, she does!"

They began to interrogate her with all sorts of questions about her life in Paris and about the Phantom of the Opera. And even though Erik had lied to her and ruthlessly pursued her to London, she could not take part in trapping him again. No, she would never hunt him down like an animal nor help anyone else in such a cause. She had not been strong enough to be the woman that he needed, but she could at least let him live in peace.

"The Phantom of the Opera is dead," she replied.

"But..." Mildred interrupted.

"The information is simple enough to confirm," Christine continued. "He even announced his own suicide in an issue of a Parisian newspaper, _L"Epoque_. Now if you please, I do not wish to speak any more on it. The affair was very distressful for me."

With respectful nods, the policemen let her be. Mildred Hobbes was not so easily persuaded.

"'E's an evil one, that man is, dearie," she advised with a sympathetic look in her eyes. "I understand 'ow you feel, but 'e's no good. We'd all be a sight better off if he was to be locked away."

Christine felt a cold rage towards the landlady the likes of which she had never felt before. She swore that she could have murdered the woman herself.

"You do not know of what you speak, Miss Hobbes," she replied coldly. "As I told the police, the Phantom of the Opera is dead."

"Even so, I'm goin' to 'ave to ask you to leave, Miss Daae," the landlady said. "I know you're lyin' to protect 'im, only God knows why you want to 'elp a creature like that one. But I ain't goin' to 'ave no trouble 'ere, understand?"

Christine nodded brusquely.

"I shall leave before the week is out."

Breathing deeply, Christine sipped at her tea again, trying desperately to fend off one of those inevitable attacks of nerves that had plagued her ever since that conversation with Mildred and the police. Never had she felt so wretched. She had no appetite nor could she sleep. And now she would have to find a new place to live. She had packed her clothing in her small suitcase, yet she could not seem to bring herself to leave. What of her students? What of her life here? What of Erik? Would he come here to look for her and not be able to find her? Did she want to be found?

Her resolve shattered, Christine set down her teacup, lowered her face into her hands and began to sob.

And then she heard it...

_I am your Angel of Music...Come to me...Angel of Music..._

Rising up slightly, she shook her head in denial. She was so overwrought that she was hallucinating. He had finally succeeded in driving her mad!

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance..._

It was him!

"Erik?" she whispered, disbelieving.

Christine's senses began to feel sluggish mind as her body fell into a relaxed state of yearning. She recognized these physical symptoms. This was how she had felt that night when he had lured her beneath the Opera House. This was how she felt as she sang those scandalous lyrics of his Opera before all of Paris. She was once more under his power, subject to his will, being taken by force.

"No, Erik, not like this," she whispered hoarsely, trying to fight against his cruel hypnotism. Yet the power of suggestion worked upon her like a drug that she had craved. It was a relief when she finally lost control of herself, for without presence of mind, there was no more fear or anxiety of the unknown.

_Come to me, Angel of Music..._

As docile and trusting as a child, Christine opened the door of her room.

Erik stood before her, disguised in his mask, cloak and hat. He smiled gently at the sight of her.

"How I have missed you, my sweet Angel," he whispered with a smile as he stroked her cheek lightly with his gloved fingertips. Gently, he leaned over and kissed one of her tears.

"Do not cry, my sweet, for I am here now. We shall never be parted again, Christine."

Unable to even remember why she should protest his touch, Christine shivered at the touch of his lips against her skin, sighing softly.

"We must leave here at once for I have found us a new home."

He placed his cape about her shoulders and took her valise.

"I have a horse waiting for us out front. Come, we must hurry while there are no police about!"

Once more, Christine blindly followed her Angel of Music, uncaring if he took her to the ends of the earth.


	21. Now You Are Here With Me

"Are you quite certain your fiancee is well, sir?" The officiant cast a fleeting glance at Christine, sitting quietly on the divan in the parlor of their new home. "She seems a bit unwell."

Blast this nosy minister! Or was he considered a preacher? A priest? A bishop? Erik could not recall his exact title for he never paid much mind to pompous religious customs. All he knew was the nervous little man before him was qualified to marry him to Christine. Also, he was willing to do so with no questions asked, given the right amount of financial persuasion.

"We agreed that there would be no questions," Erik growled in response before furtively peering at his bride-to-be.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Christine did indeed appear slightly mad.

Dressed in an elegant wedding gown of satin of the right cut and color to bring out the best in her ivory complexion, Christine had never looked more beautiful as his delicate bride. With her dark curls swept up in an elegant do that he had created himself, she could have been a princess. Yet her eyes were unfocused as she stared off into space, oblivious to what was going on around her. Her expression would lead a stranger to believe that she had been drunk or drugged.

Curse it all!

Erik had not expected his mind control to last for such an interminably long time. Yet ever since he stole Christine away from the boarding house the evening before, she had remained in a trance which he had as of yet been unable to break her out of. It was as if she did not want to return to reality. Could a mind, overburdened with responsibilities and stress and anxiety, having been subjected to hypnosis time and again, finally snap with the pressure? Erik had never read of such a thing; yet, he suspected that even Mesmer himself would not have known the answer. If he had somehow hurt Christine, he would never forgive himself. Just the thought made him want to sob in frustration and grief. He could not lose her now...especially now when she was so close to being joined to him forever as his soul mate...

"My fiancee is quite well," Erik answered, hurriedly making up a suitable lie to tell the officiant. "She had a nasty fall off of a horse a few days ago and broke a few ribs. The pain has been quite severe so she is heavily drugged with laudanum."

"Oh, the poor dear!" the man sighed, shaking his head with sympathy. "She must love you a great deal to marry you in spite of her injuries."

"Nothing will keep us apart now, is that not right, my love?"

Following his lead, Christine nodded submissively, probably not even having heard the question.

Erik swallowed with remorse. It was horrid that she was to marry him in such a state. Yet he had no choice but to proceed accordingly. The appointment with the officiant had been prearranged days in advance. And he was determined to see them married before the day was out.

"Come, my sweet. We are anxious to get married, are we not?"

Christine rose to her feet, joining the two men. Taking Erik's hand, she smiled softly, playing the role of the sweet young bride just the way that he would want her to. She was a perfect bride, all that any man could want, if only...if only she were herself...

Rest was what she needed, Erik said to himself. Once she had recovered from the ordeal of the last few months, she would return to normal. And then there would truly be hell to pay, he thought, holding back a rueful smile at the contemplation of Christine's temper.

The minister looked at the couple with doubt, obviously exhibiting wariness at the sight of the strange masked man and the eerily quiet woman. Yet he must have concluded that Christine seemed willing enough to go through with the ceremony. Hurriedly, he pronounced them man and wife, skipping any undue formalities.

Tenderly, Erik placed a solid gold ring upon her finger before touching her face with his fingertips. Her skin was cool. As still and placid as she was, she could have been a beautiful work of art. Pressing his mouth against hers chastely, he could not believe how blissful he felt, knowing that she was his wife. There was a time when he never thought such a thing would be possible. Although she did not return his kiss, she did not reject it either.

"Christine, my wife," he whispered into her ear, savoring his moment of triumph. "I shall make you so happy, my dear. I promise that you shall never have a more loving husband."

"Well," the minister harrumphed with some embarrassment, taken aback by Erik's display of affection. "I should leave you two little lovebirds alone...but first..."

"Ah, yes, of course."

Erik left his bride's side in order to pay the minister the bargained amount. The man's eyes bulged comically. Apparently, the man had never having seen so much money at one time.

"Well, all my good wishes, sir," he gasped. And then as an afterthought, he acknowledged Christine. "And you too, my lady...all my good wishes to you both, indeed."

The man seemed to be in a rush to escape what he must have considered an unnerving scene.

Erik escorted him to the carriage waiting outside, carefully instructing the driver how to exit from the maze of forestland surrounding the cottage. As the men left, Erik turned about, staring with pride at his new home. How fortunate he had been to find such a place! It was so perfect for their new married life.

Secluded in a seemingly impenetrable forest, the cottage looked like something out of a fairy tale story. Complete with a thatched roof and white cobblestones, the house could have belonged to Snow White or Cinderella or Thumbelina...any of those heroines in a young girl's storybook. There was even a scenic little pond with lily pads and a wishing well. Erik was certain that Christine would love the place once she had regained her senses.

While the cottage was cozy, it was not too small. After all, Erik needed plenty of space for the possessions he meant to acquire. There were a great many things that he had lost in the Paris fire which he found that he had missed dearly. And now that he had found a place that he was content to settle in for the rest of his days, it was time to rebuild his library and art collection. But first and foremost, a new pipe organ must be obtained immediately for he still had the score of his new _Wuthering Heights_ opera reverberating in his mind. Also, he would buy a new wardrobe for Christine, for he was damned if he was going to see her in any more of her drab black dresses.

As he walked through the secret pathway in the forest, Erik congratulated himself on the speedy purchase and preparation of this new abode. Granted, in a week's amount of time, there was only so much that could be done, but he was satisfied. It had cost him a great deal of effort and money to get the necessary furniture and furnishings required for a house suitable for his wife. Yet he worked as tirelessly at the project as if he were composing a symphony. Night and day, he feverishly set himself to the task of creating their new home, not sleeping for several days at a time.

At last, entering the cottage, he spied Christine. She had not left the parlor. Once more, she had reclined upon the divan, her eyes half closed in a somnambulant state.

Sitting beside her, Erik felt his heart race when he realized that he was alone with her. Alone with his legally married wife.

_And now you are here with me...no second thoughts...you've decided...decided..._

But she had not decided, the pesky voice warned inside of his head.

Of course, Christine would be understandably upset with him for his actions. Yet he felt he had not choice but to hypnotize her into doing his will. After her maidenly protestations behind her closed door, he found her actions had become completely unpredictable. She was so plagued with fears of religion and sex and love that she no longer seemed to know her own mind. She needed him to show her what path to take. Indeed, it was the only path available for her now for he would allow her no other alternatives.

Perhaps before that night of their tryst in his room, he would have done things differently. Perhaps he would have sacrificed her again to the likes of the Vicomte. Perhaps he would have waited longer. But that night had set his dreams aflame as they had never been before. She wanted him. She would have given herself to him completely had they not been interrupted. Her passionate sighs haunted his dreams. He would never know peace again until Christine was where he had always wanted her...in his bed...

Sitting beside her on the divan, Erik held her hand, kissing her wedding band reverently.

"Please wake up, sweet wife," he whispered as he bowed his head. "My wife..."

Unable to help himself, he rained kisses down upon her lips, on her cheek and down the line of her neck. She smelled so sweet and felt softer than the satin of her gown. God, how he wanted her!

Sweeping her into his arms, Erik carried Christine into the bedroom, barely noticing the weight of her satin wedding gown. As he laid her down upon the large bed, she looked every bit as seductive as he had imagined. The red velvet bedding set off her complexion and hair to perfection just as he knew that it would. Had there ever been a more beautiful woman?

He should leave her side at once. It would be all too easy to ravish her in her helpless state, taking his hard-earned pleasure with callous disregard of her state of mind and being. Indeed, he would be doing her a favor for she would not remember the pain of her maidenhead being breached. She would awaken by his side and truly be his wife, knowing nothing but pleasure.

But he would not do such a thing. In the first place, such actions would only prove him to indeed be a monster to abuse her in such a cavalier fashion. Secondly, he did not want a mindless doll in his bed. No, he wanted Christine as she had been before, writhing and shivering and blushing. Indeed, he would settle for nothing less.

With a sigh of longing, Erik began to walk towards the door, having made up his mind to sleep on the divan. After all, he had waited for her for so long. What was another night when they would spend the rest of their lives together?

Resolutely, he closed the bedroom door and proceeded to rest upon the divan. Surprisingly enough, he slept. That is until he was attacked by a she-demon who kicked and scratched at him in fury, waking him up into a world of bitter reality.

"How could you!" Christine stood before him, sobbing in her wedding gown. Removing the wedding ring, she flung it at him in fury. "Oh, God, Erik, how could you!"


	22. Where Night is Blind

When Christine awoke on a strange large four-poster bed in total darkness, she was completely disoriented. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew that she was in most unusual circumstances.

In the first place, she never slept in her corset; yet the despised whalebone contraption was still cinched tightly about her, obstructing both her comfort and breathing. Straining her arms behind her back in order to remove the offending garment, she realized that she was still dressed. What is more, she could not remember what gown she had been wearing when she had last been cognizant, but she was all too aware that this dress was extremely heavy, causing her to perspire profusely.

The overwhelming confusion pulled her forcefully out of her dreamlike state and into reality. Why was she in bed fully dressed? What bed was she in? Where in the world was she? Why was it so dark?

For a few moments, Christine was paralyzed in fear. She even forced a tightly clenched fist up to her mouth to keep from screaming out loud. Her heart pounding hard in her chest, she sat up, straining to see her way in the darkness.

Searching her memory, she tried to make sense of what had happened. The last clear recollection she had was her music lesson with Geraldine. Then she had become melancholy, made a cup of tea, had rested upon the settee...and then the strains of a song...his voice…

_I am your Angel of Music...Come to me, Angel of Music..._

Erik had come for her. He must have been the one who had brought her to this place. She did not know whether she should be relieved or terrified. She was a little of both.

Rising up to her feet, she stumbled about with outstretched hands until she found the bedroom door. As she made her way into a sort of foyer, she was glad to realize that there were a few windows about. The moonlight streaming through them eased her fears a bit. Moving towards one of the windows, she realized that she had entered another room. Was it a sitting room? A parlor? A library? She could not tell. Nearing the window, she pulled at the heavy velvet drapes, allowing more moonlight into the room. There was the dark silhouette of trees outside. Was this place in the country?

Looking down upon her mysterious dress, she realized why her gown was so heavy. It was a wedding dress! And on her hand was a solid gold ring!

The painful memories returned to her with full force…memories of the last time she wore a wedding dress…

_Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood? Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?_

Hot tears of rage and betrayal burned down her cheeks. Why had she been fool enough to think that she could trust him?

Perhaps in her grief for his assumed "death", she had made more excuses for him than he had deserved. Perhaps with her knowledge about his past, she had thought too much about how he had been abused and had forgotten how he himself was capable of abusing. Perhaps with her confused emotions and desires, she had fallen prey to romantic fantasies about a man who would always be a villain. He would still kidnap and he would still kill. Yet despite all of that, she had hoped that he had at least learned to respect her feelings. Was that not why he had let her leave with Raoul that night? Had he not loved her enough to let her go? And yet, here she was, his unwilling prisoner once more. And she had no knight in shining armor to rescue her from him this time. There was no escape.

The sound of a soft snore made her jump out of her skin.

Whirling around, Christine frantically looked about the room. There on what appeared to be a divan was a huddled form. When she saw the familiar white mask gleaming in the moonlight, she could not hold back her rage. Let him do his worst! She no longer cared what would happen to her!

"How could you!" she sobbed as she attacked him, kicking and scratching. Removing the wedding ring, she flung it at him viciously. "Oh, God, Erik, how could you!"

"Christine..." he murmured softly, still apparently recovering from the deep throes of sleep.

"Is this some sort of a jest, Monsieur Phantom?" she asked harshly, indicating her dress. "If so, it is not in the least bit funny!"

"Christine..." he repeated, self-consciously adjusted his mask as he sat up. "I am so relieved to find you are well..."

"Don't change the subject!" she interrupted. "Why am I in a wedding dress? Why am I wearing this ring?"

There was a tense silence between them as Erik rose and lit a candle. Christine realized that they were in a sort of makeshift sitting room which could have also been a library as there were several full bookshelves about.

"My dear," he started hesitantly. "I realize that you are a trifle upset with me..."

"Yes, that would sum up the situation perfectly!"

"...but you see, I had everything timed and planned to the minutest detail. An unfortunate occurrence happened in London, dear heart, which made it necessary for me to leave posthaste."

"What sort of 'unfortunate occurrence'? Did you murder someone else?"

"No!" he snapped, clenching his fists as he paced about the room. "What a thing to say, Christine! I must say that your demeanor and temperament seems to have deteriorated considerably since you have taken to living by yourself in London. I am not accustomed to such sarcasm and ill humor from you; and I am not certain that I like this new personality of yours at all!"

"I am so sorry to displease you, my Lord and Master!"

"There!" he pointed, gesturing madly at her. "That is exactly what I am talking about! Just because you have had a small taste of independence, you seem to have completely forgotten yourself!"

Christine rather thought that she had found herself with her new occupation and home in London, but thought it a most inopportune time to argue the particular point.

"Why can't I remember coming to this place? Where are we?"

"We are in our new home, Christine." With that announcement, he gave her a proud smile. Her heart melted right down to her toes at the sight of it. Yet she braced herself not to be moved by his charm. "I do hope that you shall like it once you have seen it in the daylight."

Christine remained stonily silent.

"And as for your memory, I believe that you must have had a nervous breakdown. Your mind appeared to have snapped...only temporarily, of course..."

"Because you cast a spell upon me again!"

Erik laughed out loud at her words.

"Good lord, child, you make me sound like a warlock! It was merely hypnotic suggestion. I am a man of science, not sorcery. Even my magic tricks have a basis of scientific fact behind..."

"And so while I was underneath this 'hypnotic suggestion,'" Christine interrupted, "you decided to dress me up in this mocking fashion! I hope you have had your fun, Erik, because you should know that I will never consent to marry you now!"

"It is a little late to say such a thing, Christine," Erik stated quietly, turning away from her.

"What do you mean?"

There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She yearned to reach out, grasp at his shoulder and throttle him; yet she did not dare.

"What do you mean?" she asked again.

"We are already married..."

Even though the world spun dizzily about her, Christine stood as still as a statue. She was shocked that she had not passed out in a dead faint.

"I don't believe you," she said after a long silence. "You would say anything to have your way with me."

He seemed unfazed by her accusation.

"I assure you that we are indeed legally married."

Making his way to a small desk in the corner of the room, Erik pulled a document out of a drawer.

"Our marriage papers."

He presented her with the documents.

As Christine stared at the official-looking papers in shock, she noted the name. Erik Deveraux. And now she was no longer Christine Daae, but Christine Deveraux. Mrs. Erik Deveraux.

"Deveraux," she repeated dully.

"It is not a true last name," Erik admitted. "I never knew my last name. But 'Deveraux' is very elegant, do you not agree?"

Christine did not answer.

Flinging the papers at him, she turned away, sobbing.

"This is quite possibly the most horrible thing that you have ever done to me, Erik!"

"But, Christine..."

"How could you!" she screamed.

"Forgive me, but you had led me to believe that you wanted to get married. Did you not have reservations about our prior...intimacies...because we were unwed?"

"Yes, but..."

"So it seemed to me that the most proper action to take under the circumstances was for us to become married immediately upon arrival here at our new home."

"Yes, but..."

"And now all is well. Our union is sanctified by God and man and the law. What more could you possibly want?"

"I wanted to be asked! I wanted a choice, damn your soul!"

"Really, Christine, such language!"

"Any woman would want to be present at her own wedding!"

"The ceremony was fairly simple," Erik joked. "You did not miss much."

"Don't you dare make fun of me!" Christine screeched, hurling herself at him and beating at his chest.

"Calm yourself, Madame!" Erik roared, restraining her with little effort.

"I shall never forgive you for this, Erik! Not ever!"

Even as she glared at him with fury, Christine noted his expression change as they both became aware of the proximity to each other. No longer was he angry or annoyed, but his look was more heated and intense.

"You are so beautiful," he growled before planting a hard kiss on her mouth.

Christine was paralyzed with shock as he explored her mouth thoroughly with his lips and tongue. He grasped handfuls of her hair, pulling her even closer to him. The sound of his masculine groan of satisfaction made her body stir with those sinful longings that were still new to her. Before she was even aware of her own actions, she was returning his kiss with full ardor.

"I am sorry, my sweet Angel," he rasped as he finally released her from his kiss and nuzzled against her bare throat, suckling at her vulnerable flesh. "But I wanted you so badly. It was only right that we should marry right away. You feel the same way. I know you do. Remember how we were that night, Christine, in my room? Remember how you trembled in my arms?"

I am trembling now, Christine thought to herself.

He lowered himself upon his knees, gripping her hands and kissing them repeatedly.

"Be my wife in every way, Christine...do not deny me…"

Throwing his arms around her waist, he buried his face into her midriff, trapping her against him. She yearned to run her hands through his hair and to caress his mask, although she would not allow either one of them that comfort. A small gasp emitted from her throat nonetheless. Having heard her involuntary admission of passion, the blackguard tightened his hold around her body, even go so far as to caress her hips and backside in the most erotic way.

"You feel this need too, my love...I know you do..."

Christine's mind screamed in outrage as her traitorous body began to ache for more of his touch. It was not fair to have such a deep desire for a man who was so utterly contemptible, so completely insensitive to her feelings as to kidnap her and marry her against her free will.

"Let me go!" she cried out as she pulled away from him, hearing the fabric of her gown rip slightly as she did so.

"You want me, Christine," Erik replied simply, his eyes alight with fire as he watched her stumble down the dark foyer and back to the sanctity of her bedroom. "You want me as much as I want you…"

Slamming the door behind her, Christine stood against the bedroom door, shaking with emotion.

Damn him, she cursed. Damn him…for he spoke the truth. And it scared her to death.


	23. Your Spirit and My Voice

Sullenly, Erik sat alone in the makeshift dining room that he had created. He had envisioned quiet meals with his new bride, partaking of pheasant and wine. Unfortunately, the reality was quite different for his new wife appeared to despise him. He stared at the silver tray of croissants and pastries before him, placed precisely in the center of the new dining room table. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to stock the kitchen with all different varieties of food. In his hubris, he had believed that he and his wife would need sustenance between their enthusiastic bouts of lovemaking. But now the food before him looked so unappetizing that it might as well have been refuse swept up from the street.

After Christine had fled from him last night, she locked herself in the bedroom and had remained there ever since. It was now late afternoon. The child would have to eat eventually, he reasoned. And when she would finally make an appearance, he would be waiting. He was not disappointed.

Garbed in an exotic black and gold floral robe that he had supplied for her in the bedroom closet, Christine was indeed a vision with her hair pulled back into a top knot. Yet she was always succulently beautiful, he noted. He practically felt his mouth water at the thought. Would he ever tire of gazing upon her perfectly proportioned face and lush body? He did not think so.

The object of his affection was not moved by his adoration, however.

"You needn't look at me like I am a Christmas present that you want to unwrap," Christine snapped at him as she sat across from him at the table and reached for a croissant. Glaring at him all the while, she proceeded to eat with relish, slathering the croissant with raspberry jam. Erik pondered other mischievous uses for that jam, but wisely kept his own counsel on the subject.

"Such a comparison almost entices me to celebrate that overrated Christian holiday," Erik smirked.

"You truly are a barbaric heathen!"

"I've never pretended to be anything else," he answered as he also proceeded to eat, carefully lowering his head so that Christine would not be witness to his mask grotesquely quivering about as he chewed. Suddenly, the food was not so horribly distasteful to him longer. In fact, he even felt his stomach rumble hungrily after a few bites. Odd as he had not had such a ravenous appetite since he was a young lad.

Erik noted that perhaps the baked goods would not go to waste after all as his bride reached for a second croissant Her hand was so small and delicate, he noted. When she once more reached for the jam, he could not resist grasping at her hand and bringing her palm up to his lips.

"Good morning, wife," he murmured between feverish kisses at the soft flesh. "Or should I say good afternoon?"

"Don't!" she pleaded, trying to pull away from him. Yet she could not hide her excited gasps for breath nor the glaze of passion in her eyes.

"All is legal between us with our union, Christine," he coaxed, gazing up at her intently over her outstretched hand in his clutches. "Why deny us both?"

Wrenching away, Christine scowled at him angrily.

"I am no wife to you, Erik. I am a prisoner and shall not pretend otherwise!"

She stormed off into the sitting room.

Well, that was that, Erik thought dumbly as he sat in solitude. How had the sun fallen from the sky so quickly?

Erik's shock hardened into hot anger. In fact, he used every ounce of self-restraint not to slam his fist into the table. So acute was his frustration that he truly yearned to kill someone. Yet violence would solve nothing. There was no one here in this godforsaken cottage besides Christine...and murdering her would certainly not make him feel better...

Sighing in agony, he rose from his seat at the table and followed her into the parlor.

"What nonsense, Christine!" he chided. "You are no prisoner."

Staring through a large picture window located by the large divan, Christine looked with curiosity at the surrounding forest outside. She must have noted the lake with the lily pads and the well. The expression on her face was one of disbelief.

"Where are we, Erik?"

"In our home," he answered coldly. "That is all you need to know."

She whirled about angrily.

"You say that to me, deliberately keeping me trapped here in this strange place, and yet deny that I am your prisoner!"

"Christine," Erik began, trying to keep the tone of his voice even and calm. "You are here in the lap of luxury. Everything that you see before you...this cottage, this furniture, the food, the clothing...all of this I have obtained for you. I have provided you with as much as a wife could ever wish for. Believe me, there are plenty of women out there who have to make do with much less."

"You kidnapped me!" she shrieked, oblivious to his reasoning. "You used your weird experiments on my mind! You had us wed when I was barely conscious! I am surprised that you did not have your way with me on our wedding night while I was in a helpless daze! In fact, for all I know, maybe you did!"

Erik scowled, pacing the floor like a tiger in a cage.

"Do you really think me capable of being such a monster, Christine?"

"Yes!" Christine answered without hesitation. "Yes, I do! You should not have married me, Erik. You should have married that doll you made that resembled me! You could do anything you liked to her without asking! You could be as horrible as you like to her! But I am not a doll, Erik! I am a human being!"

"Good God, woman!" Erik bellowed, losing his battle with restraint. "Have I ever treated you with anything but the utmost respect and affection? Have I ever done anything besides live as your devoted slave, contented in your shadow? You are the only woman for me and always have been! You alone can make my song take fl..."

"Oh, please don't go on!" she rudely interrupted. "You say that I am the only one for you, yet I know that you have been with another woman!"

Erik was speechless. In fact, he was not sure, but he thought that he might be blushing. At any rate, it was damned warm all of a sudden.

After an interminable amount of time, he finally said, "I do not see how you could possibly know such a thing!"

"I sense it in your touch!" she answered back with conviction. "I can feel it!"

"And here I thought I was the only one with mystical powers!" he quipped sarcastically. "Very well, Madame. Since your mind is made up, anyhow...yes! I admit it freely! Yes, I knew another woman!"

Christine gasped in shock, looking as if she were about to break down in tears. Erik felt a small amount of satisfaction in her reaction. Why should he be the only one to suffer?

"What was I supposed to do when you abandoned me for your pretty viscount?" he added. "Shrivel up and die in misery? Become a monk, perhaps?"

With what must have been an enormous amount of self-control, Christine calmed herself. No longer did she look like she was about to go into hysterics. Indeed, she looked as cold and hard as a statue.

"I would be truly appreciative if you ceased mocking my religion, sir!"

"My apologies," Erik pleaded as he bowed, displaying even more of the mockery she disliked. He knew he was displaying horrid behavior. He knew that this sort of thing would not win her over. Yet he was so hurt and upset that he simply could not help himself.

"I refuse to recognize this marriage," Christine announced. "Especially since I do not even remember a ceremony! I was never proposed to. I was never given a chance to accept a proposal. As such, I do not feel like a bride and I do not intend to be one. I want a divorce immediately."

"Now you are simply being foolish!" Erik raved, feeling the panic rise in his throat at the mention of a divorce. "And you say I mock your god? Who are you to rend asunder what He has blessed? Are you going to turn you back on Him and what He has decreed? And anyway, I thought Catholics did not believe in divorce!"

"I am certain that under the circumstances He would understand," she sniffed haughtily before storming down the hallway towards her bedroom. "And if you dare to try to accost me, I will not be willing at all! So I hope rape is to your taste, Monsieur!"

"That is where you are mistaken! I am your husband now. It would not be within my marital rights and not rape."

"You, sir, are despicable!"

With that, Christine slammed the bedroom door in his face. He had half a mind to kick it down. Yet to what end? He had no desire to force himself upon her. That was not how he wanted her.

---------------------------

Caressing the keys of his pipe organ with pleasure, Erik reflected that all was not lost, despite the hardships that he was facing with Christine. At least he had his music to depend upon, now that he finally had his new instrument. If he could not enjoy his rights as a husband, he could at least spend his time in a productive manner with his composition. Indeed, musical themes and scores for _Wuthering Heights_ were running through his mind on a regular basis. He just had to set his ideas down onto paper. Granted, when he played upon the large ornate organ, all of the walls of the cottage seemed to shake with the incredible force of the volume. Yet, if Christine minded, she had not said so.

Then again, she had said nothing to him at all for the past week...

With dismay, Erik reflected upon the insufferable situation. The days and nights had passed in agonizing silence and tension between the two of them. Christine only would deign to be in the same room with him in order to eat her meals. Whenever he attempted to engage her in conversation, she would not speak in return. Whenever he even so much as looked at her for longer than a few seconds, her eyes would widen and she would scurry away like a scared rat.

She spent her nights in the bedroom.

He spent his on the divan which was now covered with an assortment of pillows and sheets. Indeed, the sitting room was starting to resemble an unkempt hotel room with all of the bedding strewn about haphazardly.

The situation was comical. Only he was not laughing. Nothing had gone the way he had planned. Nothing.

However, Erik had been right in his perception that Christine would love the little storybook cottage that he had found for them. Although she had called it a prison, her eyes would light up as she explored all of the nooks and crannies of the quaint rooms. And she would often set a blanket for herself outside upon the grass by the lake. At first, Erik was suspicious that she was plotting out a means to escape by way of the forest. It would have been quite foolhardy for her to attempt such a feat as she would undoubtedly become lost and possibly meet her end by way of some savage beast. Yet, she did not seem to be making any such attempt. Usually, she would just lie back and observe the sky or read a novel...as she was doing now...

Quietly, Erik rose up from the organ bench, paced through the house towards the rear entrance and observed Christine in her private oasis. Garbed in a simple day dress, white with a blue floral pattern, she seemed to perfectly fit in with the storybook surroundings. Indeed, she could have been a long lost princess herself. Sleeping Beauty with her hair flowing about her shoulders in repose. With her head turned to one side, she looked so peaceful with the sunlight shining upon her face. He would have been driven to distraction by the grass, the wind, the insects...but his love truly seemed to be a child of nature. Perhaps it had come from all of those years of traveling about with her father during her youth, he thought. For him, the outdoors had meant something quite different. Life on the road with the gypsies had been one miserable day after another. With the strains of sideshow music playing in the recesses of his mind, he tried to cast out the hated past and focused on the present.

Desperate to concentrate on something else, Erik walked outside and stood by her sleeping form. Surreptitiously, he glanced at her book. Another Brontë novel, of course, he noted with amusement. _Jane Eyre_. He had made sure there were plenty of gothic romances for Christine in the library, just in case his bride had needed amusement. He was rather satisfied to note that he had succeeded in pleasing her in some fashion, no matter how paltry.

Then the seed of an idea began to take hold...

--------------------------

Later that evening, Erik worked feverishly at his composition of _Wuthering Heights_. He had nearly completed "Heathcliff's Lament". When Christine left the privacy of her bedchamber in order to grab a few sandwiches which he had left for her upon the kitchen table, he began to sing out in his pure tenor voice. With all of the passion and grief that he could muster up, he sang of Heathcliff's ordeal with gusto. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Christine had not quickly returned to her room as she usually did. Sitting at the kitchen table, she continued to nibble at a cucumber sandwich, watching him with curiosity.

When the song had ended, Erik doodled some imaginary musical notes upon the parchment before him. While pretending to be in the throes of creative inspiration, he was secretly waiting with anticipation for some response from his spectator.

"Is that from a new opera?" Christine asked quietly.

Erik almost guffawed out loud with victory.

_Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey..._

"I am sorry, my dear," he said, not looking in her direction, continuing to scribble. "Did you say something?"

"I asked if that was from a new opera," she repeated timidly.

"Ah, yes, I believe that this country air has been quite good for my concentration. I am writing a new piece. Do you like it?"

"It seems familiar somehow..."

"I would imagine so," he shrugged nonchalantly. "My new opera is based upon one of your favorite novels, I believe."

"What do you...Good Lord, Erik! Are you writing an opera of _Wuthering Heights_? That is it, isn't it?"

The enthusiasm and interest in her voice pleased him very much. Ah, yes, things were going well...perhaps even better than he had expected.

"Yes. I am presently composing Heathcliff's lament for Catherine Linton Earnshaw after her unfortunate passing. Tell me, Christine, do you think that it is true to the novel? Have I captured all of the necessary pathos?"

"Oh, very much so," she responded. Even though he could not see her, he could visualize the gleam in her eyes and the smile on her lips.

"Your opinion means so much to me, Christine," he admitted. "I found the novel so intensely emotional, simply perfect as an opera. Yet there are some parts of the opera that I am encountering some trouble with..."

"You? Having trouble?"

"Yes, dear heart," he answered patiently, ignoring her teasing sarcasm. "Even I can become horribly frustrated in the midst of composing. For example, with 'Song of the Moors'..."

"What is 'Song of the Moors?'"

"Catherine Earnshaw's song of sadness, missing Heathcliff as he runs off in the night in the middle of the horrible storm..."

"Oh, I loved that part of the book!"

Clapping with delight, Christine arose from her seat in the dining room and neared him.

"Yes, indeed. It is the climax of the romance and therefore a very important song. But I need to hear it sung with all of the drama that it deserves." Erik waited a few moments before turning to face Christine. "Will you sing it for me, Christine? I could not imagine a more perfect singer to play Cathy."

The expression of rapture faded from her eyes at once.

"Oh, I don't think so, Erik," she answered, shaking her head in the negative as she backed away. "I do not think we should work together that way anymore."

"I understand, my dear," he said lightly, turning back towards the organ. "It must be terribly embarrassing for you."

"What must be embarrassing for me?" she asked after a bit of a pause.

"Well, 'Song of the Moors' definitely cries out for a beautiful voice of skill. You know the kind of songs that I write with such demanding notes. I understand if you feel you are no longer up to the challenge of singing my music."

"No longer up to...? How dare you!"

She stamped her foot with petulance.

"Well, forgive my impertinence, Christine, but while your voice is still lovely, you have allowed yourself to weaken over the last few months," he lectured, secretly reveling in torturing his proud beauty. "Your breath control is not what it once was. You have not been doing the exercises I taught you, have you?"

"How dare you insult my singing! I never asked you to listen in on my singing lessons with my pupils anyhow..."

"Nevertheless, if you are to teach young unschooled voices, you must have the proper discipline and technique yourself. Otherwise, what sort of example are you setting for your students?"

"As if I even have any students now!" she cried in outrage. "And I always teach them breath control, you arrogant..."

Her words trailed off.

"Then why are you afraid to sing?"

"I'm not!"

"Prove it!" Erik taunted, beginning to play the prelude of "Song of the Moors"

He knew that her pride would only take so much.

With indignation in her eyes, Christine stood beside him, straining to read the words scribbled out upon the sheet music that he had placed before her. Once she had begun to sing, she glared at him haughtily, silently implying that she had not lost her talent nor her technique. Yet, as she continued to sing, his music seduced her. She became Catherine Linton Earnshaw, wandering the moors in the rain and thunder, searching for her lover.

She sang the song once more.

Erik then had her sit beside him on the organ bench and sing a duet with him. The final love song of Catherine and Heathcliff. Just like in the past, their voices blended in perfect unison. With music, their spirits soared to that heaven that they thought they had lost.

Even when their duet was over, Christine was still transfixed with the ecstasy that his music had wrought in her. With closed eyes and parted lips, her expression was one of happiness and peace.

And he could not resist her.

Gently, he leaned over and kissed those soft tempting lips...


	24. Where You Long to Be

**A/N: After the ravages of Hurricane Katrina, I thought we could all do with a little lovin' from Erik...so this is rated for sex below. My thoughts and good wishes are with all of those who have suffered from the terrible disaster.**

--------------------------

_And with music, my soul began to soar...and I heard as I never heard before..._

Erik's voice was the most beautiful sound imaginable. It always had been.

With her eyes closed, Christine allowed the words and the tones and the notes of the Angel of Music's honey-laced voice to wash over her and carry her off to somewhere far away...where there was no sorrow or guilt or death. As she sang the love duet that Erik had written, the one of Cathy and Heathcliff reuniting in death, she did not have to pretend that she was in the throes of rapture with her lover on the moors of the English countryside...for she was indeed in her own private Eden. Indeed, she felt as if she had returned home from a long journey. How ironic it was that while being held in captivity by this dangerous man, she had never felt more safe than she did at this moment. In fact, she almost thought that she might be happy. The sensation was unfamiliar to her.

When their song ended, Christine did not open her eyes. She was in no rush to return to reality.

The shock of Erik's lips against her own startled her, causing her to jump slightly. His mask tickled against her cheek. She trembled as his mouth and tongue teased her, demanding either reciprocation or rejection. Stunned, Christine pulled away, shifting her hips slightly on the small piano bench that they were both sitting on. For a moment, she feared that she might fall on her backside right on the plush red carpet.

Opening her eyes, she gazed at Erik, feeling as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. His expressive eyes were uncharacteristically tender. She saw what he must have been like as a young boy, hungry for a morsel of affection from a world that hated him. She saw him as he was now, consumed with passions that had been so long repressed that he could not seem to distinguish one emotion from another.

The vulnerability was fleeting. At the loss of contact, his mouth drooped into his customary hateful sneer as his eyes hardened into stony cynicism. He stiffened with resolve as if he were preparing to be slapped by her hands or her words. She should strike him for taking such bold advantage of her. Indeed, he deserved far worse for all of the times he had deceived her. Yet she could not bring herself to rebuke him.

Not tonight.

She just wanted to hold on to that magical world that they alone knew. Just for a little longer...

Swallowing with trepidation, Christine raised a trembling hand to stroke his bare cheek. His anger melted away at once as he closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of her touch. Then he covered her fingers with his own, greedily grasping onto even that small amount of intimacy, no matter how small.

When he opened his eyes, his gaze was of such strong intensity that it nearly took her breath away.

"Christine?" he mouthed silently as if he were afraid to break the spell between them.

Gently, Christine returned his kiss, placing her lips against his and hearing him inhale sharply as she did so. For a moment, she remained still, unsure of what to do next. Despite their past encounter, she was still very unskilled in the art of lovemaking. She touched her tongue shyly to his own, repeating how they had kissed that night.

Releasing a deep throaty moan, Erik pulled her so close that she could barely breathe as he took all that she could give. Holding both of her hands into his own, he was content simply to explore her mouth slowly and thoroughly, allowing her to become accustomed to his touch. This was no heated hurried whirlwind as it had been the last time. And the longer they kissed, the more that she yearned for him.

As Christine continued to learn the ways of love, she also knew one thing for certain. She would not fight him tonight.

Erik's kisses began to grow in intensity. His hold on her became tighter, so much so that she was trapped in the circle of his arms. And he practically growled like an animal as he began to tear at the buttons of her blue and white floral gown. The small little popping sounds of the loose buttons falling upon the floor barely registered for her. She did not cry out when he lowered the torn gown down to her waist, baring her to his gaze, clad in nothing but her chemise and corset. Erik's hands were everywhere...on her neck, her shoulders, her waist. When he cupped her breasts and massaged them through the silk of her chemise, Christine cried out in excited response, feeling dizzy and faint.

"Please, Erik..." she gasped. "My corset..."

Immediately, Erik untied the bothersome strings at her back, mumbling under his breath that he did not know why women insisted on wearing such horrid garments. The loathsome corset was thrown across the room without hesitation.

"Before we continue, we should be in the proper setting," he stated simply before sweeping her up into his arms, skirts and all.

As Erik carried her into the bedroom, she nuzzled her face into the tender flesh of his neck, feverishly kissing at the exposed skin. Having been encouraged in her bold caresses, she now found that she could not make herself stop. How had she ever survived for so long without this man? His strength, his charisma, his voice, his scent, his feel...she felt as she were absorbing every aspect of him into her own being.

Lowering her upon the bed, Erik gazed at her with a fiery hunger as he rapidly undressed, tearing at his own clothes in his haste. She would have been frightened had her own urgent need not matched his own. As she saw him naked before her, she blushed and lowered her eyes. It was not that he repelled her. Quite the opposite, in fact. He could have been a classic sculpture in his perfection. But one could not fight a lifetime of maidenly shyness in one night. She tried to occupy herself by taking her skirt off, yet her fingers seemed completely clumsy and useless.

"Let me," he coaxed softly.

At first, he tried to untie the pesky ribbons. But then he again lost patience, ripping at the hated fabric until her dress was in a ruin.

"My apologies," he mumbled harshly as he pulled at her shoes and her stockings. "I shall purchase you a new one. I'll buy you a hundred new ones."

Christine realized that she was the way that he wanted her, completely and helplessly naked underneath him. Yet she was not afraid. She felt as if all of her life had been leading up to this moment. They were destined to be together like this, for better or worse.

As the weight of his body pressed against her own, she thought she would die from the sweet feel of his flesh beside her own. Drowning in his kisses, she could have purred like a cat as he stroked her breasts and stomach with his fingertips, making her desperate with unfulfilled need.

Briefly, he paused to remove his mask. He was still as if waiting for the inevitable scream to follow. Yet she was oblivious to all flaws, pleading for him to make love to her in a frantic whisper.

Once more, he lowered his head between her thighs, worshipping that forbidden place with his mouth. This time she could not even bring herself to feel shame. Writhing and gasping uncontrollably, the explosion of pleasure and release that he created inside overwhelmed her.

Before she had even recovered from her violent spending, Erik rose above her, rubbing his manhood insistently against her thighs. Running her hands along his back, she encouraged him to continue, knowing that there was no turning back for either of them. As he proceeded to press against her, she moaned a bit at the painful loss of her maidenhead. She could not stop the hot tears from streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, licking softly at her tears.

For a while, they remained silent, joined together as one. Erik still continued to kiss and pet her, stroking at her breasts and thighs. Gradually, the pain began to ease. When he moved his hips against her, she began to feel strange feelings of pleasure deep inside.

With a surprised gasp, she involuntarily pushed her hips against him, wanting more.

"Better?"

"Oh, Erik..." she moaned, pulling him closer. "Oh, please..."

Wrapping her legs around his hips, she clung to him as he continued, riding the strange and wild uncoiling waves of indescribable pleasure. Holding on to him tightly, she sobbed as she bit into his shoulder, trembling with the mounting sexual tension in her body which she had yet to grow accustomed to. As she heard Erik's own cries of passion, her body catapulted into an uncontrollable and fierce release. Nothing in her life had ever felt so good. She knew Erik must have felt the same way as he spent with a loud roar, burying himself deeply within the cavern of her body.

Pulling her close into the shelter of his arms, Erik stroked her heated skin softly, crooning words of love. Feeling deliciously cozy, she slid her arms about his waist, nestled against his warm body. She just barely heard Erik's last words before she succumbed to slumber.

"If a lightning bolt should strike me down at this moment, I would go to my grave a happy man."


	25. As You've Never Lived Before

**Warning: More sweet seduction below...**

* * *

"Come...come see the Devil's Child..."

The gruff voice repeatedly called out in the fog, accompanied by the careening gypsy sideshow music that inspired seasickness.

Kneeling in the small cage which reeked of hay, animals and excrement, Erik was huddled over and stripped to the waist. His head was covered in a burlap sack with jagged holes torn into the cloth so that he would not suffocate. Despite the old gypsy man's orders to reveal himself, he remained obstinately still. Yet pride was a weak weapon against a well-mastered whip. As he was lashed again and again for his disobedience, the pain began to overwhelm him until he had forgotten what he was fighting for. His back felt wet, although he did not know if the liquid was sweat or blood oozing from his pores. With resignation, he finally gave in. What was one more humiliation in a lifetime full of such trials? He should be used to it by now.

Screams and laughter from young children filled the night as they gazed at the unmasked face of the Devil's Child. The clamorous jeers and cries kept increasing in volume and pitch until he thought he would go mad. He cursed himself for his lack of fortitude. He wanted to die. If only he could be anywhere...anywhere but in this living hell...

"Erik?"

The voice of an angel reached out to him in the darkness. Had his wish been granted? Had he finally escaped the life that he had been condemned to?

"Erik...please calm yourself...it is all right..."

A soft touch on his bare arm...the soft whisking of cloth...a soft female form by his side...the smell of roses...Christine...

"I'm here..." she whispered, stroking his face.

Erik was ashamed to feel hot tears run down his cheeks and onto her fingers. Out of reflex, he covered his face with his hand, pulling away from her in despair. Yet the stubborn woman would not let him go as she curled up behind him and wrapped an arm over his waist.

After a few moments, he had recovered himself enough to turn and face her. The room was softly lit with the glow of candlelight. He must have frightened her terribly with his nighttime ravings which, truth to be told, were a fairly common occurrence.

Christine, looking adorably mussed up with her curls strewn wildly about, truly did appear as if she had fallen from the heavens to grant him salvation. Yet no ethereal spirit could possibly look so exquisitely delicious, naked and inviting as she was in the candlelight, covered only with a sheet. His body stirred in immediate eagerness at the tempting sight of her. Yet, inwardly, he scoffed at himself in ridicule to dare to hope for a repeat performance of what had happened between them. As if any woman would desire to lie with him as he was now, blubbering like a newborn infant.

Pulling himself up until he sat up on the bed, Erik rubbed at the wetness on his face, trying to achieve some modicum of self-control.

"I apologize, my dear," he said, fumbling for some cool joking statement to rescue him from his own weakness. "I am hardly ideal husband material right now, am I?" Not that he ever was, he thought bleakly.

"You must have suffered a horrible nightmare," she replied, rather disingenuously. He remained silent, feeling no urge to respond to the obvious remark. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Erik blinked a few times, trying to comprehend what she was saying.

"Talk about it?"

"Yes," she nodded solemnly. "Whenever I would have bad dreams, my Papa always used to say that talking about it would get it out of your mind and then you would never suffer that nightmare again."

Recalling the shame of his youthful captivity, Erik had no wish to ever speak of it to anyone. Especially Christine. No, she would never know the level to which he had once sunk. Not even if he had to suffer that same nightmare a hundred times over.

"I have already forgotten what it was about," he lied.

Christine looked at him with skepticism.

"I find that hard to believe, Erik."

"Nonetheless, it is kind of you to offer a sympathetic ear," he continued. "Whenever I had nightmares as a child, my mother would often box my ears for waking her up from a sound sleep."

Christine was so horrified by his revelation that she was speechless.

"Please do not look at me like that," he snapped. "I abhor being pitied."

Rather than having been put off by his temper, Christine looked at him in much the same manner as she had the night before when she had led him into that fateful kiss. She looked at him so intensely that he felt as if she were trying to stare into all of the secrets of his soul.

"If you ever wish to tell me, I will listen," she said solemnly.

"And you won't box my ears?" he asked in an attempt at humor.

"I would never wish to hurt you, Erik."

The simple statement made Erik feel odd. Before this moment, only music had the ability to touch him so deeply. And now the words of this woman seemed to grip him somehow. He was halfway afraid he would start to cry again and lose any hope of regaining dignity in her eyes again.

Quickly, before he succumbed to the strange emotion, he changed the subject.

"How are you, Christine? Are you feeling well?"

She blushed at the intimate question. He could have kicked himself for asking about such a sensitive subject in such an oafish manner. But it was the only other thing that had come to mind.

"Just a little," she admitted.

Erik groaned with self-loathing. How could he have been such an animal last night, taking advantage of her love of music and singing to seduce her to his will? True, she had been the one to initiate the kiss. But she had been swept away in an artistic fervor as she was wont to do. And he knew that was so. Yet, he had trapped his prey and mercilessly bent her to his will, carrying her to the bedroom and ravishing her. Oh, yes, he was every bit the monster he was rumored to be. Perhaps no longer a killer or a specter, yet a monster just the same.

"Perhaps I should draw you a bath or...?" he asked in a weak attempt to atone for his sins of the night before.

His offer was quickly halted as she placed her fingertips softly against his lips. As she pressed him down onto his back on the bed, her eyes were glowing with feminine excitement. The way that she looked upon him, he could have sworn that he had perhaps metamorphosed into a handsome prince overnight. How could she so disregard his frightening visage? How could she play the part of a happy bride so convincingly?

Erik halfway wondered if he were still in a dream world as he gazed upon the woman beside him. She looked absolutely radiant as she smiled at him tenderly. Never in any opera, never at any time since he had first laid eyes upon her had she seemed so beautiful. He yearned so to kiss her mouth, still swollen and puffy from their lovemaking. As if he had willed it, she leaned over to kiss him.

"Not right now..." she whispered against his lips.

His mind spun crazily. What had they been talking about? Oh, yes, a bath...a bath...

As Christine rested her naked body atop his own, Erik nearly moaned with agony. Only a girl as innocent as she was could be so blatantly seductive without any trace of shame. He swore he would not toss her upon her back and begin rutting away at her as if she were a streetwalker. Yet as she planted baby kisses along the side of his neck and down his shoulder, he literally trembled with an effort not to give in to the savage lust burning underneath.

And the self doubt was ever present...

"Christine, you must not feel obligated to..."

"Erik," she interrupted. "As much as I love your voice, would you please be silent for a while?"

He chuckled in response.

"Very well, Madame. You may have your wicked way with me. I shall endeavor to be as quiet as a mouse."

Christine giggled charmingly.

"I can hardly imagine you ever being that quiet, Erik."

Her smile made his heart melt. Was this what she was like as a little girl when her father was alive? He could imagine her playing and dancing to violin music in the brisk winter winds. What a little sprite she must have been before sorrow drained out all of the youthful joy in her eyes!

Once more, Erik's thoughts became hazy. Christine was torturing him with her kisses, becoming entirely too experimental as she ran her tongue in a very unladylike fashion along his sensitive flesh. With a growl, he grabbed her and rolled over until she was trapped underneath him.

"I am trying to be a tender gentleman to you, you horrid temptress, but you are not making it easy for me!"

"Then don't be a gentleman," she coaxed with a come-hither smile.

"Very well," he responded with an evil grin. "But I shall be oblivious to all cries for mercy."

With that, he proceeded to pay her in kind, pinning her hands to the mattress as he teased her naked breasts with his mouth. She was driven into such a frenzy that she bucked and writhed underneath him.

"Please make love to me, Erik...please..."

Yet he was not finished with her. He was determined that she would know the same sort of physical yearning that he had been victim to ever since he had spied her twirling about in her little ballet costumes. He nipped and stroked and played with her body, delighting in the animalistic lustful moans that escaped from her gasping breath.

"Say you want me, Christine..." he commanded as he slid his tongue along the inside of her quivering thigh.

"I want you..." she pleaded.

"Say it again and again."

"I want you, Erik. I want you so much. I want you. I want you..."

He could never hear the sweet admission from her lips enough.

When he joined his body with hers, Erik was once more lost in a world of bliss. As he moved against her, he was worried that she would once more feel the pain of her breached virginity. Yet her sweet cries of pleasure and her eagerly thrusting hips quickly disabused him of that notion. He had thought that nothing could surpass that first moment that he finally made love with his Angel. Yet this time was even better as there was no pain, only pleasure. He allowed himself to become a bit bolder and rougher, giving in to his urges. Christine not only did not fight him. She practically encouraged him with her squeals and tremors. Again, they both cried out with shrieking ecstasy, gripping onto each other tightly as if the intense pleasure would drown them both.

Afterwards, he held onto her protectively. He swore to himself that he would never let her leave his side again. He would die before he would ever lose her again. He never wanted to lose this feeling of...happiness...

Sleep came with the stealth of a cat. And there were no more nightmares.


	26. In this Labyrinth

Alone in the bedroom, Christine stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror which Erik had reluctantly supplied for her at her request. Who was the woman who looked back at her with all the drowsy satisfaction of a cat lying about in the sun? The person before her appeared entirely too voluptuous and seductive to be decent, even when she was primly dressed up in a modest purple day dress buttoned up to her throat, even with her hair tied back tightly at the nape of her neck.

Who was this woman? She could not be Christine Daae.

At moments like this, when she was alone and away from Erik's influence, the strict Catholic tenets enforced in her youth would plague her mercilessly. In the first place, surely it was wrong to care so deeply for a murderer who had never truly atoned for his sins. Yes, he had suffered horribly as a young boy. But that did not excuse all of his crimes and sins. And it did not excuse her for turning a blind eye to them. She had broken off an engagement with an honorable decent man to be forced into a marriage with a man too dishonest to even wed her in her right mind. And never mind her moral rectitude, what about her pride? Giving in to Erik and this marriage was practically rewarding him for his duplicity.

But when Christine was in the same room with Erik, she forgot all of her apprehensions and fear. All of her worries seemed to melt in the warmth of the sun. And at night, when they were pressed together naked in the large four poster bed, everything felt so blissfully right. Sometimes, when he was making love to her, she just wanted the world to stop so that she could feel that way forever.

Perhaps that made her feel the guiltiest of all...

Christine was so tormented with mixed emotions regarding the subject of sex. Mamma Valerius had always told her a wife must simply endure conjugal relations in order to procreate. The first time would hurt dreadfully. Afterwards, it would "not be as bad". Such a cold foretelling of what was in store for her had made her rather dread the prospect of marriage. And whenever she looked at forbidden books of anatomy, she simply could not understand how a man would be able to get _that_ into _there_!

However in those days, she did not dwell on the matter much as she was devoted to the Angel of Music. She was as loyal and steadfast to her art as a nun was to her religion. The crude matters of what went on between a man and a woman in order to make babies did not concern her. It was not until Raoul de Chagny had come into her life with his flirting glances and kisses...and it was not until her Angel revealed himself as a man who had his own secret desires...

Then everything became so complex.

To complicate matters, she would often hear all of the lewd stories which reverberated throughout the hallways of the Paris Opera House dressing rooms. Many an evening, she would hear La Carlotta and La Sorelli comparing notes on their various lovers in not-so-hushed whispers. Who had the largest appendage? Who had the most endurance in the bedroom? Who was the handsomest? The wealthiest? Such descriptions were equally as off-putting to Christine as Mamma Valerius' dour warnings. They spoke of their lovers more as if they were racehorses than human beings. Indeed, she had heard more intimate details about Sorelli's lover, Phillippe de Chagny (who just happened to be Raoul's older brother), than she had ever cared to know. Only women of the lowest sort would discuss such forbidden subjects as openly as they did. And truth be told, Christine felt that Carlotta and Sorelli were only a few steps away from the gutter when it came to their morals. She did not want to be like them.

Yet the reality of the situation was that she too had a weakness for flesh. She had learned that about herself these last few days.

How foolish to think that once she had given herself to Erik, they could at last be free of this mutual obsession for each other that had ruled their lives for so long. If anything, the opposite was the case for they could not seem to get enough of one another. His ardor for her had not cooled one bit. And as for herself...the problem was not that she found her husband's lovemaking more pleasant than she had expected to. It was that she craved his touch so often and intensely that she was sometimes worried that she was perhaps mentally disturbed.

Later that first night when they had lain together, she had only meant to comfort him when he awoke in the throes of a nightmare. She was not accustomed to seeing him so vulnerable and in distress. She wondered what horrors he had known to make him thrash and cry out in the night. Such thoughts made her feel horribly sorry for him. And she wanted to hold him to her breast and soothe away all of the pain.

At first, that is what happened.

Yet the feel and scent of his warm body pressed against her own worked upon her like a drug. She had a taste of what it was like to be a woman and wanted more. Before she knew it, she began kissing him and could not stop. The familiar hunger took over as she explored his body with her mouth and hands. She halfway feared that he might push her away in shock and disgust. But her curiosity only enflamed his own lust. He not only allowed her to take such liberties in the bedroom, but he encouraged them. They fed off of each other's passions with insatiable ferocity, making each coupling more intense and pleasurable than the last.

Funny how Erik had contrived over the years to capture her by so many different means. He had pretended to be the Angel that her father promised to send to her. He came for her through her dressing room mirror. He had tried to win her through both bribery and blackmail. He had hypnotized and seduced, frightened and threatened. Yet now, he had truly caught her by simply being a man with a man's needs. For despite all of her misgivings, she did not know how she could ever break free from him now.

How could she ever return to her life in London or in Paris now? He had stalked his way so deeply into her heart that she would never be able to start a new life without him. And what perhaps disturbed her the most was that she no longer wanted to escape him. She was perfectly content just as she was. As his captive wife held in this fairytale forest, she had never felt more whole.

"Christine?"

Christine started at the sound of his voice.

"I am sorry, sweetheart," he soothed. "I did not mean to frighten you."

Christine observed Erik's reflection as he came to stand beside her. He did not appear out of the ordinary. Dressed in his usual attire of a simple white ruffled shirt with black trousers, he donned his mask and wig. Although his looks would startle a stranger, she had grown accustomed to them. So why did the mere sight of him make her heart pound with such excitement?

"I have been waiting for you to join me for dinner," he continued, enfolding his arms about her waist. "Why are you so tarrying so?"

"I am sorry, Erik. I guess I am just..."

Her words trailed off as he bent his head to kiss at the sensitive spot at her shoulder. What a blackguard! He knew all too well what that would do to her!

"Yes, my dear, you're just...what?" he asked, nuzzling playfully at her flesh.

"Not hungry..." Not for food.

Had there ever really been a time when he had repulsed her? Those days seemed so long ago. Even on the few occasions that he would allow her to see him without his mask, she now found him devastatingly attractive. As he towered behind her, she could not keep from devouring the sight of his image in the mirror. How she loved his sculpted cheekbone, the line of his exposed throat, the small curls on his chest visible above the lining of his shirt...

"My dear, are you ill?"

When he looked up at her, she trembled slightly as she gazed into his eyes. She did feel horribly warm...and there was an ache in the pit of her stomach...but it was not illness that caused her symptoms. She blushed when he slowly began to smile knowingly with a hot glint in his eyes. How unfair that he could read her like a book!

"On the other hand," Erik said as he proceeded to work at the buttons on her dress. "Perhaps dinner can wait..."

* * *

And so the days and nights passed by in a dreamy sensual haze. Summer cooled into fall. The leaves in their fairytale forest matured into a sea of red, gold and brown.

One morning, Christine stirred and did not find Erik lazing beside her in bed. With a slight pout, she rolled over and heard the sound of organ music in the background. Apparently she had lost her husband to his creative muse. Sighing softly, she slipped on a robe and joined him in the music room.

"Christine!" he cried out jubilantly, seated before the pipe organ and wearing nothing but his red silk dressing gown. "I had the most marvelous inspiration of a dream for _Wuthering Heights _. And I could hear the melody just as plain as day! I had to write it all down while I could still remember."

"That's wonderful, Erik!"

"Yes," he nodded, seeming quite pleased with himself. "I have been a very poor composer as of late. I haven't written so much as one note in months. But all that must change now. The opera season shall soon begin. And I intend for you to play Cathy in _Wuthering Heights _before the year is out with a spectacular Christmas gala to end the season!"

"Oh."

Erik stopped his writing to glare at her.

"My dear, a little bit of enthusiasm is not necessary but it would be appropriate. After all, I am writing this piece for you!"

There was an awkward silence between them.

"But, Erik, I thought you did not believe in Christmas."

He shrugged nonchalantly.

"I don't, but a lot of fools do. It is simply a good business decision."

More interminable silence.

"Really, Christine, you needn't look at me all wide-eyed!" Erik chastised her. "After all, this will be the best role you have ever had. I know how you have felt. You have been so shamed at the notoriety of our prior...adventure...that you think that the opera world thinks on nothing else but to connect you with the misfortunes of that time. But this shall show them all, Christine! This will show them that true talent shall not be tamped down! HA! HA! And with your talent and my genius, we shall set the world aflame with our music just as we had always dreamed!"

"It does sound lovely, Erik, and I am so glad that you are thinking of me..."

With a flourish, he arose from the organ bench.

"Think of you? I do nothing but think of you, my wife, my queen..."

He began to smother her with kisses, naughtily running his hands along her naked flesh underneath her robe.

"Oh, Erik...don't...not right now, not when I must tell you..."

"Why are you suddenly so shy, sweet bride?" he coaxed, planting a sweet kiss on her lips. "I am your slave and I would do anything for you," he murmured as he held her tightly against his chest.

"Do you really mean that, Erik?" Christine cried out breathlessly.

"How can you doubt me?"

"Then you will not be angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry with my little wife?" he teased as he kissed her on the ear.

"As lovely as the opera sounds, Erik, I am afraid it may not be possible."

"Of course, it is possible, my dear. Granted, you will need to work a bit to regain your vocal stamina, but I have no doubt that with a little time and practice..."

"That is not what I mean!" Christine interrupted hastily, pulling away from him. "I mean that I simply will not be able to do it!"

Erik glared at her silently for a few minutes, crossing his arms before his chest.

"I cannot understand this lack of faith in yourself, my dear. This is unlike you."

"This has nothing to do with my voice!"

Erik looked completely befuddled.

"I am afraid I still don't understand."

"Well, I am not sure, but...oh, I didn't want to tell you this way..."

Christine bowed her head in frustration.

"Christine, my dear, there is no need for all this hemming and hawing about," Erik lectured as he held her hand and kissed it. "I thought we had grown past such nonsense. Have we not had a very amicable marriage once we surpassed those first few obstacles?"

Christine nearly laughed out at his rose-colored phrasing of what their situation had been. But she nodded in agreement.

"Yes, Erik."

"Now I may not be happy with what you have to say to me, but I am certain that whatever it is, we can work out whatever complications may cross our path. My child, whatever it is you want to say, just say it!"

"Very well," Christine swallowed before continuing. "I think I may be with child."


	27. The Mask You Wear

"Erik!" Christine's voice called out in through the whirling kaleidoscope. "Erik, you must have fainted..."

Sitting up and cursing, the music room spun about crazily as Erik sat up and touched the back of his skull with his fingers. He must have hit his head on the organ bench when he fell. He was unaccustomed to being so vulnerable as to pass out. What in the hell had happened?

"Christine...?" he rasped.

"Get a hold on yourself, Erik!" Christine laughed, kneeling beside him and stroking his cheek. "You are supposed to be the strong one and I believe I am the one who is supposed to be fainting...in my condition..."

As Christine blinked at him with a soft blushing smile, everything came rushing back to him with nauseating speed.

Christine was going to have a baby!

"Christine?" he gasped, rising up from the floor. "Are you quite sure?"

"Well, I cannot even remember when I had my last monthly time...and I do believe I may even be getting a bit fat."

Erik clenched his fists tightly, trying to hold in the storm of panic lashing throughout his body. Consumed with manic energy, he paced about the music room like a caged tiger. And the thoughts were already scattering about in his mind frantically.

How could he have been such a fool as not to foresee this? Ever since that first time two months ago, they had made love almost every night. Of course, this was bound to happen. It was inevitable. Why had he not planned for such an event? It was maddening! He could orchestrate the downfall of an opera company but he could not plan ahead enough to acquire some "French Letters"? Did he really believe his own legend so much that he thought he was merely an apparition, immune to bearing seed? Or was he simply such a besotted wretch, so overwhelmed with loving his beautiful wife that he had simply lost any ounce of brain that he had possessed? Yes, that was it! Erik, the village idiot!

Erik had no excuse except that he had never been as happy as he had been these last few weeks...so happy that he had not concerned himself with such trivial realities such as babies. He had never thought himself as a person who would enjoy domesticity. Yet his time keeping house with Christine had been heaven. There were no adventures or intrigues to speak of, no dramatic operatic plot, no violence and pain. Just simplicity and peace. When they were not discovering the secrets of each other's bodies, they would read together by the lake outside or sing at the organ. He had even taken to attempting to cook since Christine had no culinary skills whatsoever. There had been laughter and happiness...and love like he had never dreamed he would know...

Even in his wildest fantasies of Christine, he had only hoped to possess her. He had never thought it possible that she would return his affections so completely. There was something so satisfying about being with another person who he could simply be himself with. He could talk on random subjects at length while Christine would listen to him avidly, taking in all of his ideas as if he were still her beloved teacher. They would discuss opera and literature. And sometimes, they would simply embrace each other, taking comfort in each other's arms. He had never been so close to another living soul...ever...

And now this intruder of a baby was threatening to steal away his paradise with Christine!

"Erik, please say something..."

"Well," he began haltingly. "I suppose...that there is no need to panic..."

"Oh, I am so glad you feel that way!" Christine raved, throwing her arms about him with excitement. "I know it is a shock, Erik, but I suppose that it was bound to happen sooner or later. And the more I think on it, the happier I become. Why, all my life I have been alone, ever since my Papa died. I have no real family of my own to speak of. It would be such a comfort to me to know that this little person will be a part of my life for the rest of my days. Just think of it, Erik, neither of us shall ever be lonely again!"

Erik held back a groan of horror at the thought. He would trade loneliness any day of the week over the sort of chaos that was looming before him. The only babies he had ever known were the ones he observed in the gypsy camps. He remembered very little but squalling cries and dirty linens. Even in his own misery of those days, he felt sorry for the parents, constantly lugging about their ungrateful little brats everywhere that they went. And they always looked so tired, never knowing any solitude or peace.

How would he be able to write his opera now? How would he be able to accomplish anything now?

And why was she talking about her loneliness? That was all in the past. She had him, body and soul. Was he not enough for her?

Christine was still babbling away at an excited pace as if she herself were still a little girl.

"And then when she grows up..."

"She?" He responded dumbly. "How do you know it will be a 'she'?"

"I just know, Erik!" she answered with a grin. "I can feel it! She will be a little girl with laughing eyes!"

Erik shook his head sadly. Christine was living in a dream world of 'happily ever after'. She never was one to face realism often. That was why she had been so easy to deceive with tales of ghosts and angels. And now she thought that this baby was going to make them a happy family like in one of her storybooks. He hated to have to disillusion her for he always delighted in her smiles. But this was too important. Christine had to be made to see the truth for once...to see reason...

"Perhaps..." he began tentatively.

Christine stopped talking, looking at him with such hope in her eyes. He could not bear it.

"Christine, forgive me," he pleaded, clutching at her hand. "I hate to upset you, my dear. But I believe you are setting yourself up for an immense disappointment."

Her face fell at once as she pulled away from him.

"So you do not want this child." It was not a question falling from her lips but a statement. "I thought when you said..."

"You misinterpreted me, Christine. I meant that we should not panic for it is not too late...to take other options...to prevent a horrible mistake."

"What do you mean?"

Erik groaned in dismay, falling upon his knees. This was the worst sort of torture! Of course, a sheltered girl like Christine would not understand his meaning.

"Christine, I admit that I have been guilty of deceiving people throughout my life." He knelt his head down, taking a pose of a sinner at confession. "Yes, I have even been dishonest to you, my love, on several occasions. But I shall not lie to you now. Christine, I cannot bring myself to be happy about this news. Indeed, it is the worst sort of calamity that could ever befall us."

At first, Christine looked as if he had struck her. Unshed tears hovered at her eyes. But then she quickly recovered herself and laughed.

"We are only talking of a wee little baby, Erik. You make it sound as if I will be giving birth to a devil!"

Erik nearly hissed with agony at her remark, shutting his eyes tight and covering his ears with his hands.

_Come...come see the Devil's child...the Devil's child...the Devil's child..._

Tortured memories returned. Children chasing a young masked boy, throwing rocks at him. The young boy's beloved pet dog, murdered through ignorant violence. A mother turning her face away from the boy in shame and anger. And through his adult's vision, he saw the eyes of the boy turn from innocent hurt into murderous rage.

_The sins of the father..._

"No!" he cried out, stopping the voice in his head, beating his fists upon the carpeted floor of the music room. "This cannot be, Christine! THIS...MUST...NOT...BE!"

"Erik, you are beside yourself!" she cried, trying in vain to comfort him by stroking his shoulders. Yet he shied away from her touch. "Please, you mustn't upset yourself this way!"

"Christine, think!"

"What?"

"THINK, YOU LITTLE FOOL!"

Christine jumped out of her skin at the ferocity of his tone.

"I am sorry, my dear," he pleaded, trying to quiet his voice, although he was still gasping for air as he did so. "I hate to bring up such an unpleasant topic, but I have no idea what the nature of my...disfigurement...is. It may have been an accident that my mother had, injuring me in the womb. It may have been purely bad luck. Or it could have possibly been...heredity."

She gasped at his words as he pulled at her skirts, pleading for her to understand.

"I could not bear to bring a child into this world cursed with a face like mine! I would rather die! I would not wish a face like this on my worst enemy, much less an innocent babe! And if it were a girl...Christine...she might look like you...with my face! An aberration of nature!"

Christine's eyes filled with sympathetic tears.

"It would not matter, Erik," she said, reaching for his hand. "The baby would be ours and I would love it, no matter what it looked like. I promise that to you now."

Erik shook his head in the negative.

"You say that now, child, unknowing of what a grave responsibility motherhood is. A child is maddening under the best of circumstances. I witnessed that for myself during the days of my youth. But to go through the tedium of taking care of a little one who looks like a monster? You would go as mad as my mother, Christine, and I should kill us both before I would allow that to happen."

"Do you really think I am as shallow as all that?" she sobbed, her voice wracked with pain. "You are wrong about me, Erik! You are so wrong! I would love the baby, Erik...just like I love you!"

How long he had waited to hear her words of love! And now they cut into him like a knife.

"You are only human, my dear," he shrugged hopelessly. "Granted, you have been a true angel on earth to show love for a poor creature like me. But mercy and compassion has its limits...even for you..."

Erik rose to his feet, pacing about the room despondently. His turbulent emotions had utterly worn him to exhaustion in a matter of minutes.

"Even if you were right about me, Erik...which you are not! But let us say that you were right, I really see no way around the situation. We have made our bed and we must lie in it!"

"Well," Erik ventured hesitantly. "There are ways. I have read that..." His voice trailed off.

Christine looked at him with dark suspicion.

"You have read what, Erik?"

Erik continued, bracing himself for the resulting storm.

"There are concoctions one could take to...expel such a creature from one's body?"

At the suggestion, Christine turned as white as a ghost.

"You mustn't look so afraid, Christine," he said quickly. "There is very little harm to the mother as I understand it."

He knew the look on her face. He saw it in those early days when she would gaze upon his face in abject horror. Once more, she gazed at him in wide-eyed terror.

"By 'expelling such a creature', you really mean for me to kill our own baby!"

"Oh, Christine..."

"Why mince words, Erik!" she shouted, enraged. "You are talking about coldly murdering an innocent baby!"

Truly, she was magnificent in her rage. Maternal instinct became her.

"But is it even really a baby yet, Christine?" Erik begged the question.

"Yes!" she cried out, clutching at her stomach with enough melodrama to give Carlotta a run for her money. "Yes, it is! And how dare you suggest such a horrible thing to me! Are you really such a coward that you would rather kill our child than face yourself and your past?"

If the woman before him were not his beloved Christine, he would have killed her for saying such harsh words to him. As it was, he remained coldly and deadly silent in the face of her fury.

"I warn you, Erik! If my child dies, I shall die too for I will kill myself before I see any harm come to her!"

"Really, Christine, such dramatics are unnecessary..."

"I mean it, Erik! I shall dash my head against the wall and end my life before I shall live the rest of my days with a child's death on my conscience, blighting my soul!"

Although it was odd for the thought to cross his mind at such a moment, Erik reflected again on how brilliantly Christine would play Cathy in _Wuthering Heights_ . Sometimes, when she was at peace, she would be so quiet and shy that she could have been a little mouse. But now with all of her passion at bay, she truly was a sight to behold! What a waste, he though solemnly, that her talent would be cut short at an end so soon. Because of the little intruder!

"And as for you, haven't you killed enough people?" she ranted. "Must you spew your dark hatred onto your own child? I have never heard of anything so disgusting!"

The remark reflected more on Christine's nature than on his, he thought to himself. She was simply too pure of heart and immature to know the fate of unloved children. He knew all about such an existence, having lived it first hand. And he had seen other children in the gypsy camp who suffered in such a way. Bruised and battered children who never knew how to laugh or to smile. That is what came of being unloved.

And Erik knew that he was not capable of the kind of love one needed to raise a child.

When Christine had left him that first time with the Viscount, he had cried out in the night that he loved her. And he was grateful to her that she had taught a soul like him that he was capable of such a feeling. Despite the cutting agony of her rejection, he knew that he too could share that sweet emotion, even if unrequited. But he was not sure that there was enough of a giving nature in his soul for a baby. A baby required selfless love. He did not have that inside. No, his love was of the most selfish nature. That much he knew about himself.

Christine undoubtedly would make a splendid mother. Yet she would not be able to bear the brunt of parenthood alone. He would have nothing of worth to give to either her or the child. And she would grow to resent the burden that she had sworn to love. Thus, one more life doomed to sadness and despair. She could condemn him all she liked for his past sins. Yet he had not been responsible for all of those other murders...not really. But to bring a child in the world...that he would be responsible for. Every tear, every disappointment, every flaw in the child would be his doing for allowing it to make its way into the world. Even as Christine glared at him angrily, he could not bring himself to agree to such a thing. It would be the blackest sin of all to be party to such misery.

"You really are a monster!" she sobbed. "I curse the day I ever heard your damned voice!"

With that, she shut herself away in their bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Christine would have made an excellent murderess, Erik noted, for he felt as bloodied and torn up as a slain corpse at her feet. Slowly, he walked into the library and sat upon the divan. Then he leaned his head into his hands and wept, cursing the fates for what they had wrought upon him.


	28. For Either Way You Choose

**Just one quick update before I got out of town for a week or so. I know this chapter will upset some of you so I apologize in advance for being such a cruel author.**

* * *

After a stormy night of tossing and turning, Christine awoke only to find herself in intense agony with cramps in her womb. Before she had even made her way to the chamber pot, she recognized the signs. She was not pregnant after all. The tell-tale stream of blood running down her thighs was the confirmation of that fact.

Christine cursed herself for being such a fool. If only her mother had been alive to counsel her, perhaps she would not have been so horribly ignorant about feminine matters such as this. She could have sworn that having skipped a month that there would be a child. And she had even felt differently somehow. But it all must have been wishful thinking...a pipe dream...

Having cleaned herself up, she sobbed and threw herself back onto the bed, burying herself under the bedsheets.

Even though the baby had never really existed at all, Christine could not help but mourn for her lost dream. But it was more than that. She was also grieving over Erik and the loss of her illusions. She had been living in a fool's paradise these past two months in her 'marriage' to him. Never had she felt so happy and content. But now she was beginning to see the harsh reality of the future before her eyes. And she did not like what she saw.

When Christine spoke to Erik of how much she wanted a family of her own, she had meant every word of what she had said. She was not willing to spend the rest of her life without any children. As much as she loved Erik, she had to admit to herself that he was much older than she was. Eventually, he would die first. And then she would be all alone once again. How wonderful it would be to have a child with his angel's voice to comfort her in her grief. How wonderful it would be to be part of a family. She saw a baby as a celebration of their love, as a combination of the both of them, and as a fresh start. And she indeed had thought that perhaps they should even have more than the one baby.

But Erik saw having children as something else all together. He was so consumed by the fears of his own past that he could not fathom the idea of a child. He was so frightened that the child might inherit his cursed face that he had even wanted to poison it out of her.

Christine covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the cruel memory. She could not bear to even think of such a thing.

Yet after the initial storm of disappointed tears, she sat still upon the bed, tightening her jaw with resolve. She had been in this place before. Back in those dark days when her father had died. As much as she sometimes yearned to jump into the Seine and end her misery, she continued to survive. She did what she had to do. And now she would do so again.

There was no solution. She would have to end this farce of a marriage.

Just the thought of it made her moan in despair. Yet she knew that there was no other path to take. How much had she sacrificed for him? She had been living here in this remote forest, not even knowing or caring where she was. She could not go through with her marriage to Raoul because Erik had always had her heart. Her career was now shattered because of his crimes. And now she was destined to be childless. No, it was the last sacrifice...and one she would not make.

But how would she escape this fairytale prison? How would she ever escape him?

There was only one way that she could think of to enable her to leave.

_Wuthering Heights._

Erik could not put on an opera without an audience. That meant a trip to London, at least. She was not sure exactly what she would do at that point. Perhaps if she could get word to one of her students. Someone like Geraldine. Then she would leave Erik and find freedom.

Yet even the idea of freedom seemed like a prison if it meant a life without the man she had grown to love so passionately. Perhaps she should just be content to have him as her husband and find a way to be happy without her dream of a family.

After all, to have children, she would have to marry another man. And the thought of being with anyone else now left her cold.

And yet she was haunted by the face of the baby that she had imagined inside of her. The infant had no name, but she had dark hair and trusting innocent eyes.

Christine sobbed anew.

There were no easy choices.

* * *

Erik tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep.

Without his fragile wife as his protector in the night, the demon of a gypsy barker tortured him.

_Come, come see the Devil's child..._

Deciding that any more attempt at sleep served as the most useless sort of folly, Erik went into the kitchen and made himself a pot of strong spiced coffee. It would be a long day indeed which yawned before him. His eyes felt as dry as shriveled up onion peels and his head throbbed with a relentless tympanic rhythm. But the coffee gave him the necessary jolt to at least bear being alive.

As he sat down in the kitchen and sipped at the hot brew, Erik felt that he was a bit more calm now, more recovered from the shock of Christine's revelation. Now he could at least bear to think of his prospective offspring without cowering in complete panic.

He had reached the definite conclusion that his wife would refuse to see reason. They were going to be cursed with this baby, no matter what. Even if the child was condemned to bear his looks and temperament, she would not be swayed, sure with all of the headstrong youth inside of her that she would be able to love the demon unconditionally. Unfortunately, she would have to learn the folly of her thinking the hard way.

However, there was one thing he knew as a certainty.

He would not allow this intruder to wrest him away from Christine!

No, he had come too far to lose her again. And what an irony to lose her not over a handsome man like the Viscount, but over an unformed baby in her womb. Such a thing would not come to pass, not while he still had breath in his ugly carcass.

Never again would he spend another night like the previous one, sleeping alone and yearning for Christine. He had his fill of such nights long ago. While he was disappointed that she would not be able to sing in his opera, he would rather have her silent and by his side than lose her all together. He would rather his composition be interrupted by a squalling brat than the alternative.

For without Christine, there was no inspiration. There was no music.

Did he have any choice but to accept this child for better or worse?

He was not happy about the prospect of a mewling little monster wrecking his life. Yet it was his own damned fault. He had not planned and taken the proper precautions out of sheer recklessness and inexperience. And Christine, being an innocent young lady, would have had no inkling of how to take the proper measures to prevent conception. So now he was destined to pay a lifetime's price for his stupidity. And he deserved it. He never could suffer fools easily. Since he had proven to be a fool of the greatest magnitude, he would simply have to endure whatever hell awaited him.

An hour or so later, Christine left the bedchamber, dressed in a simple robe of blue silk. While she was always beautiful in his eyes, he had to admit that she looked the worse for wear. She had circles under her eyes. Her hair was mussed in snarled tangles. She even looked a bit thin for all her swearing that she was getting fat. She had to take care of herself lest the child kill them both. That he truly would not be able to survive.

"Good morning, dear wife," he called out, thinking that taking the offensive was the best policy considering their harrowing argument the night before. "How are you feeling?"

She did not answer but rather let out a petulant sniffle.

"Have some breakfast, sweetheart," he coaxed, pushing a plate of omelet before her. "You need to eat for the baby. I made you some tea with ginger and lemon in it. Such a concoction aids in preventing nausea and may be helpful for you right now."

She looked at him dumbly, seeming to be a bit in shock. Then she stared rather nervously at the cup of tea that he had placed before her.

"You may drink the tea, Christine," he snapped with a trace of bitterness. "I assure you that it is quite safe."

She sipped at the cup obediently, although she seemed to shiver with trepidation as doing so.

Erik hated seeing her this way. Apparently, his rage and distress last night had worn on her. She now seemed as cowed as she had ever been in his presence. In the days of old, just having her with him was satisfactory enough. But now he knew better. He knew what she was like when she was relaxed and happy, laughing at some joke of his or smiling sweetly when he would stroke her cheek. The fearful Christine was no longer welcome in his heart.

"I have been doing some thinking regarding our child, Christine," Erik suggested, hoping that perhaps some chatter about the little beast would raise her spirits. "I suppose I could convert the guest bedroom into a sort of nursery for the baby. I have no idea what sort of things an infant requires but I shall leave it up to you to..."

Christine let out a sudden wail, causing Erik to jump out of his skin like a nervous cat. He sat there awkwardly as she collapsed in tears.

"I suppose we could convert the sitting room into the nursery if you prefer..." he suggested feebly.

Never had he seen her so distraught.

"My dear," he pleaded, kneeling beside her and taking her hand. "You mustn't upset yourself so. You'll make yourself sick. Please...Christine...think of the child..."

"There...is...no...child..." she stammered out in between sobs.

"No child?" Erik repeated dumbly.

She shook her head in the negative.

"I'm afraid I do not understand."

"I started...my monthly...today," she explained with small little halting breaths.

"Oh."

Why wasn't he relieved? Was this not the best of all possible scenarios? Now they could go back with their marriage the way that it had been before with no intruders. Now they could proceed with their opera and soar away with their dreams of love and music. And yet he had a nagging feeling that things would not be the same again.

Odd that he should feel that way...

"Erik?"

"Yes, my sweet?"

"I am so upset. Could we not work on _Wuthering Heights_ for a while? Just to get my mind off of it?"

"Of course, my dear," Erik answered quickly, trying to hide the relief in his voice. Yes, everything would be back to normal soon enough. "I must tune up the organ a bit and then we shall get started."

She did not acknowledge him but rather listlessly sipped at the tea.

"I hate to see you so upset, Christine," he said, stroking her hair. "But I am certain that it was for the best..."

Christine flinched from his touch, shifting a bit in her seat as she moved away from his stroking hand. She had not done that before, he noted with dismay. Not since those days at the Paris Opera House.

A stabbing pain wrenched through his gut as he began to feel on the verge of panic.

No, he assured himself. She was just upset. That was all. Any woman would be upset after losing a baby that she wanted. Even if the baby never really was in the first place, he noted wryly. Once he began to sing for her, once they worked on their opera again, things would set themselves right again.

With that, he left the kitchen and proceeded towards the music room.

If only he could rid himself of the sense of dark foreboding that had overwhelmed his heart...


	29. Let My Opera Begin

_Holiday Gala, King's Theatre, three months later..._

As the curtain fell upon the premiere production of _Wuthering Heights_, the opera patrons applauded with gusto. Even the wealthy upper class socialites, so in love with their traditional classic operas, had been enthralled with the new and exciting work, even though it was a bit dark and morbid for the Yuletide

Season. Everyone was agog to learn more about the composer of the piece, a Mr. Howard Tomkins. A spritely elderly gentleman sitting in the front row claimed to be the man. Yet the elite looked upon them man with the garish top hat with skepticism. He seemed horribly common and did not appear to know the first thing about music. Most mysterious, indeed.

And what of the sensational Christine Daaë? Everyone in the opera world had heard of the unfortunate affair of the Phantom of the Opera, even here in London; and now all of England seemed to take the notorious soprano to its bosom. With her voice capable of reaching impossible celestial heights, she was often referred to in the notices of the day as the "Fallen Angel of Paris". Indeed, the scandal of her past only heightened her celebrity. She was regarded as a creature of passion and intrigue, capable of drawing hideous monsters out from their foul catacombs. Yet despite all of the melodramatic descriptions of her life story, no one could deny her true talent and ability as a reigning artist of the stage.

In the shadows of the theater, Erik somberly observed his triumph. All in all, the evening had been a complete success. As he watched his wife curtsy prettily on the stage, he tried to smile. He wanted so much to revel in her glory just like he used to in the past. However he had been scowling with rage and frustration so much for the last four months that he felt as if his face had hardened into a marble bust of misery. The days of his strained marriage wore upon him so that he was incapable of gloating.

Ha! if one could even call what he shared with Christine a marriage...

Gone was the intimacy and passion that had meant so much to him. Now, anytime that he dared to so much as touch Christine's hand, she would shy away from him, trembling. How his heart ached when she did so! Yet he did not force the issue nor complain. The rejection in her eyes was painful enough. He did not want to hear the hurtful words as well. Still he would have dreams of her joining him in her naked loveliness at night. He would have nightmares of kicking down the bedroom door and forcing his attentions upon her, manipulating her body into unwanted pleasure as she screamed with tears rolling down her cheeks. He would awaken unfulfilled and miserable, wishing that he were dead and then spend the rest of the day and night yearning for her from a distance. He might as well still be a wretch living in the catacombs.

Erik wanted to rage at Christine for being so foolish as to cast aside their love. He wanted to throw himself at her feet in horrified sobs. He wanted to tell her that he would do anything, anything for her at all, if she would only come back to him as the loving woman that she had been during those two months of Eden. If she wanted children, she could have them...dozens of them...if she would only forgive him. Yet fear and pride were overwhelming forces; therefore, he did and said nothing.

Ever since Christine revealed to him that she had not been with child after all, they simply went through the motions of life. They would sit in the dining room and eat in silence. They spent much of their time apart. Christine would sit in the library and read. Erik would usually mope about in misery, working feverishly at everything and accomplishing nothing.

The only thing that seemed to bind them at all was their operatic love child, _Wuthering Heights_.

So like the fiendish slave he was, Erik devoted himself to the music and finishing up the score. Often he would work several days at a time with minimal food and rest. He had even been more manic than his usual wont. Perhaps because when he lost himself in the opera, he did not have to think about how he had lost Christine's love. And he still had the foolish hope that by pleasing her with his masterpiece, she would forgive him and take him back.

As for Christine, she had drowned herself in the part of Catherine Earnshaw. She seemed to live for rehearsal sessions, both at the cottage and later on when they moved to London. He had never seen her work so hard, not even when she was just a little chorus girl. Often she would wander around the cottage like a little ghost, but when she began to sing as Cathy, the color arose in her cheeks. She was tempestuous and vibrant, completely transforming herself into the role. Erik marveled at the actress she had become. Sometimes, she was virtually unrecognizable.

Their townhouse in London was cozy and elegant, simply furnished in the appropriate Victorian style. If Christine was pleased or displeased with his choice for their new abode, she gave no indication of either. But it was close to the opera house in London and on a remote side street. At night time, he could come and go as he pleased in the foggy streets and no one would take any notice of him, give or take a few slatterns walking the street.

Once they had been settled in their new home, Erik quickly put his plans in motion as there was no time to waste. The sooner he could mount the production, the sooner Christine would be involved in her life's work again. She would forget all of the nonsense about babies and return back to the stage where she belonged.

Beyond the artistic obstacles of mounting such an ambitious production, Erik also had to contend with all sorts of animosity on the practical level of getting the piece put on. He was all too aware that he was no longer in Paris. He could not rely on a reputation as a spectre working behind the scenes. Thus, he had to accomplish his goals through the rather mundane measures of bribery and blackmail. First, he had to contend with the managers of the Opera House who had proven themselves to be even greater fools than those of the Paris Opera House. Then he had a rather unpleasant quarrel with some members of the Brontë family over the rights to the novel. On that score, he regrettably had to get nasty, making a few death threats and playing a few pranks to keep the Brontë clan under control. During this time, he located his erstwhile acquaintance, Mr. Tomkins, and gave him another small fortune to pose as the composer of the opera. True, he was not the most qualified man for the part; but that was of little consequence. In fact, Mr. Tomkins' ignorance might be a convenience in an odd sort of way.

In the end, all had gone well.

The opera had come off as every bit as brooding and romantic as he had intended. With sweeping painted canvases of the lonely English moors and a set piece of the house which Erik had constructed himself, the world of Heathcliff and Cathy had been successfully created. The orchestra had played the music to his satisfaction. While he was not impressed with the rather guttural sounding voice of the tenor playing Heathcliff, Erik knew that sheer jealousy was the cause of his dissatisfaction for he would have loved to play that part for himself had he a handsome face. Little Geraldine Chapman, Christine's former voice student, had been quite promising as the tragic Isabella, unrequitedly in love with a man who would never be able to give her his heart. Add to that Christine's return to the stage, and he should have been bellowing with glee.

But setting the world on fire no longer meant as much to him anymore. He just wanted his wife back.

* * *

After the performance, Christine was besieged by admirers and congratulations. She had forgotten the euphoric rush of life in the opera. On stage, there had been no room for giddiness. She had been too deep in concentration as she portrayed Cathy, torn between her wild lover and the life of wealth and respectability which she craved. But now her head spun with all of the chaos and excitement backstage. And she could not help but feel like a little girl lost in a crowd. Of course, Erik was nowhere in sight. And while she was pleased to receive compliments from the audience, cast and crew, she felt as if she did not really know any of them. She would have given anything to see the stern but pleased countenance of Madame Giry accompanied by a few playful pirouettes from Meg. Even Carlotta would have been a welcome sight in this land of strangers.

"Christine!" Geraldine Chapman cried out, making her way through the crowd. "They all loved us! Isn't it wonderful?"

Christine hugged her former student fondly. Thank God for Geraldine. She had been Christine's only joy and hope for sanity in these turbulent day. And she had been perfect as Isabella.

"You were so magical on stage, Christine! And so beautiful!"

"Thank you, my dear. You were magnificent as well. But be sure and mind those flat A's!"

"Oh!" Geraldine gasped in dismay. "Ever the stern taskmaster!"

"Should you wish to excel, there is much more to learn," Christine advised. Then the memory hit her of another time when Erik had said the same thing to her.

"What is wrong, Christine? You look rather sad all of a sudden...and on tonight of all nights..."

"Just tired, dear. Run along now."

With some effort, Christine managed to beg off the well-wishers, pleading that she needed to take off her stage makeup and get dressed. Finally, she had managed to be alone. She gazed solemnly in the mirror as she took off her wig and rubbed the makeup off of her face.

_Bravi, bravi, bravissimi..._

Nervously, she looked at the mirror. He wouldn't dare! Not again!

No, it was simply her mind playing tricks on her. But she would have loved to hear his voice right now. Why did she have such an irrational desire for his approval, even now after everything that had happened? He would be waiting to greet her in a coach outside of the opera house to take her back to their home. Yet she knew that she would not find the comfort that she sought from him. Not while there was this impenetrable wall between them.

Time and again, she could have escaped. She could have run away from the opera house during a rehearsal. She could have pleaded help from the managers. She could have simply sold her clothing and jewels and run back to Paris. Yet she did none of those things.

Even with her heart breaking, she knew that trying to run away from Erik was just repeating the mistakes of the past. He would always be there singing songs in her head. He would always follow her wherever she would run to. Technically, she was not a prisoner for he had allowed her more freedom than ever since they had moved to London. But yet she was captive to him in a different way now. He owned her heart and her soul and her body. If only it did not mean such sacrifice...

In the dark city streets, Christine hurriedly rushed along until the black coach with the crest of a wolf's head stopped at her side.

"Hurry, dear, before you catch cold," Erik warned. "It is miserably damp out here."

He helped her into the carriage.

During the short ride to the townhouse, Christine looked out the window in distraction. She should be pleased that _Wuthering Heights_ had gone so well. It was the best role she had ever played. The songs she had sung fit her like a glove. Perhaps she could not bring herself to be happy because she knew that Erik had tailored everything for her as he had always done. To the outside world, this opera had proven that Christine Daae was a talent in her own right, that she did not need the influence of a mad genius to be successful. But of course it was all a sham. Her career was more carefully constructed by Erik than ever before. And she was so dependent upon him now.

And she was so miserable...

Everything was so complicated now. Not a day would pass when she did not yearn to make love with Erik again. Yet she was afraid of possibly becoming pregnant, especially now that she knew how he felt about such matters. Always he would look upon her with his pleading eyes, yearning for her. Always she would want to reach out and hold him, stroking away all of the hurt. But how could she now when everything was so awkward and horrible between them?

"Roses for a beautiful star..."

The words jolted her back to the present. They were back home.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking the bouquet of the blood red roses.

As Erik reached out to help her out of the coach, his eyes burned with passion and anticipation. Yes, he had expected that tonight she would forget the past and return to him. If only it were so easy...


	30. Your Chains are Still Mine

As Erik reached for Christine's hand to help her out of the carriage and onto the cobble-stoned street before their townhouse, he found that he could not release that hand. He could not let her go. And he cursed himself.

The pathetic groveling creature of the catacombs would not make his appearance this night.

Yet she had been so beautiful on that stage. So alive and on fire and magnificent. His Christine. His Cathy. His life.

She must have seen the intense yearning in his eyes for she would not look at him. Rather, she turned her head to the side, hiding her face behind the large hood of her heavy blue cape, shyly turning her eyes away. Yet she would never truly be able to hide from him again. He knew her too well now, all of her vulnerabilities and weaknesses.

Erik had not meant to be forceful and yet the storm inside of him had been restrained for too long. And tonight, he could not release it through pounding away on a musical instrument. He could not free it through scribbled notes on paper. He had written his opera with all of the violence and passion that was inside of him. Yet ven though the curtain had finally risen upon his masterpiece, the turbulence still whirled on relentlessly. This time, he could not transform the wild emotions into Heathcliff and Cathy's operatic drama. He could only bear this state alone and try to find some way to contain it lest he once more descend into blood shedding madness.

And as he stood so near the object of his desire, he knew that he had lost the battle.

Whirling her about, Erik grasped on to her shoulders with an iron grip, taking a cruel satisfaction in her shocked gasps as he lowered his mouth fiercely upon her own. She was such a delicate flower that he could tear into shreds if he so wished. Her struggles were so easily subdued that she could have been a small babe in his arms. He grew hard, his head spinning with a combination of lust and power. As he plundered her mouth with his tongue, he dreamed of how she looked wearing nothing but her undergarments and corset, her long dark curls flowing loosely down her back. He would bend her to his will. She was his wife. He had every right to have her in his bed.

Christine trembled in his arms, emitting a breathless moan.

"Yes, Christine, yes..you feel it too..."

His mouth wandered from her lips to the curve of her jawbone and along the side of her ear.

"Do not deny me tonight, my beautiful goddess..."

His compliment was rewarded with a vicious slap across the face.

Pulling away from him, Christine adjusted her cape, tears shining in her eyes.

"How dare you accost me out here like a common streetwalker!" she cursed before turning about and entering the townhouse.

Adjusting his mask, Erik let out a defeated sigh of frustration and grief before returning back to the carriage. The horse had to be attended to. There were still the interminable monotonous errands that he had to attend to tonight and every night, opera be damned. He felt like whipping the horse to shreds, even though it was not the poor beast's fault that his wife was so cruel.

Never had he felt so old and tired and ugly and worthless...

* * *

Damn him, damn him, damn him!

Christine felt as edgy as a nervous cat. She knew that retiring to bed would be foolhardy at this point. There would be no sleeping tonight, just tossing and turning in fury and frustration. And now that the opera had begun, it was imperative that she rest if she were to perform at her usual standard.

Sitting in the parlor, she poured herself a glass of port. Usually, she did not drink. The port belonged to Erik. But perhaps tonight it would help. And she would not run away to her bedroom like a coward! She had spent her whole life running away from Erik...or so it seemed...

No, not tonight, she swore as she took a hearty gulp of the loathsome stuff. With the second swallow, she found the liquid not quite as distasteful.

Foolish of her to put all of her energies into the opera. Even though she loved playing Cathy, the fact of the matter was that it was all make believe. She still had to live with herself once the curtain went down. And with him...

Her hand shook as she held the small snifter glass, not with fear but with intense desire. It was unfair of him to make her want him, knowing that he would never allow any of their children to exist. After all, man and woman are joined together in the union of marriage for the purpose of creating a fruitful union. She had been taught that all of her life. To engage in such with no intention of all to ever have children seemed wrong somehow. Like something that a prostitute would do.

And indeed that was what he wanted from her! He wanted her to be his mistress, his masterpiece, his creation. But he cared nothing about what she wanted. He did not even see her as her own person but just this image that he had created in his own mind.

"I apologize for my ungentlemanly conduct."

The raspy snarl made her nearly jump out of her skin.

Erik stood in the foyer, bowing to her in a mocking fashion.

"Imagine my impertinent behavior to think that I might be allowed conjugal rights with my own wife!"

Turning away, she took another sip of the drink, hoping that it would give her courage. She could face hundreds of audience members on a stage without one qualm of stage fright. So why did the thought of just sharing her feelings and thoughts with Erik make her so nervous and frightened?

"What of my rights, Erik?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

Although she did not see his face, she could hear the confusion in his voice.

"My rights as a woman. My right to have children."

There was a tortured sigh.

"Christine, I thought that..."

"Women, after all, do not have that many rights, do they, Erik?" she continued, feeling her head spin a bit from the liquor. "We cannot vote or safely walk the streets at night alone. Fashion dictates that we wear skirts and be hampered by a million frivolous necessities in order to go out on a simple shopping expedition. But women, all women, can have babies. Indeed, most husbands expect their wives to bear them children. And yet you expect me not to have children."

"Christi.ne..."

"I love my life in the opera, Erik," she continued. Now that she had started, she would not stop. She dared not stop. "I shall always be indebted to you for helping me become the artist that I had always dreamed that I could be. Perhaps you can live on that alone. I cannot. I shall not be young forever. I will not be able to play the starring romantic lead roles forever. I need something that is mine, Erik. Truly mine. I do not want to look back upon my life and just remember parts that I had played."

The room was quiet. Deadly so.

What was he thinking? Was he angry? Upset? She dared not look.

"I do not want to live my life without children," she insisted, feeling as if the world were being lifted off of her shoulders as she made her confession, for better or worse. "I want my own family. I want a home and security. I've never known that, Erik. Even with my father, I only remember traveling from one town to another as he played his compositions for anyone who would listen. I've never had a home. And now my father is gone. Mamma Valerius shall probably not live much longer either. You are my only family, Erik, don't you see? You are all that I have. But you are much older than I am and when you die..."

She could not continue, feeling the tears creep upon her.

"You shall be all alone again."

His soft understanding words caused a sob to wrench from her throat.

"And I shall once more be alone and grieving. For that short amount of time when I thought that I was with child, I thought of how life would change. My thoughts would be with the future and not the past. And when you swore that there could be no children between us..."

She shuddered with the memory, fighting to remain calm.

"I thought that perhaps I should escape you somehow. That I would use this opera to throw myself upon someone's mercy and escape. But I could not do it. I love you, Erik..."

"Oh, Christine, dear heart, I love you...I love you so much..."

Erik's arms encircled her suddenly, causing her to drop her glass. His warmth and understanding felt so good that she felt as if she had been released from a terrible prison.

"Forgive my selfishness, my dear," he acknowledged quietly. "For what do I know about children? What do I know about mothers? I had no mother. Simply a keeper who resented me from the minute I was squeezed out of her womb."

Christine sighed miserably, knowing that she would never have the words to express the sorrow she felt when she thought of his wretched childhood.

"I do not know if I have it in me to be a loving father, Christine. I do not know how to be a father for I had none. I swear I would not know where to start."

"That is not true. I know from experience that you are a very patient teacher. And I also know your capacity to love."

"Yes, but that is love for an adult woman, not a child. I do not know that I am capable of giving all that a child requires. I will not lie to you. I shall probably resent the child for interfering with my life's work which it is bound to do. There is no room in the music world for babies. How shall I be able to hear my compositions with constant caterwauling?"

"Babies grow up, Erik," Christine chided.

"True enough, which will present its own set of problems. Add to that my fears that this child may inherit my cursed face or some other dreadful deformity."

"But we will love the child even so. History shall not repeat itself for we have learned from its example."

"You are so young, Christine. So optimistic and brave...thinking that you can conquer all of the obstacles of the world..."

"So you haven't changed your mind?"

There was a long silence. Erik held onto her in such a tight grip that she barely felt she could breathe.

"Christine, before you, I was not a man. I was just a freak of nature. I was not living. I was just existing. And then a bratty little chorus girl stole my heart..."

"I beg your pardon!" Christine interrupted.

"Hush. As I said, a bratty little chorus girl stole my heart. You claim I am a teacher. But you have taught me, Christine, more than you know. I am a proud person and it is not easy for me to say these things. You taught me that I could love. You taught me that I could forgive. You taught me how to sacrifice. Before everything went wrong between us, I had been the happiest creature alive married to you. Do you realize that I have only known happiness with you? What right have I to deny you children, Christine? I have none."

"Oh, Erik!"

Christine whirled around and hugged him fiercely.

"Children are also a source of happiness, Erik. You shall see. And you need not sacrifice your music, Erik. I shall take care of everything."

Erik guffawed with laughter.

"I wonder if you shall say such things when the babe is a day old!"

"Oh, I shall!"

"I already foresee three lives filled with chaos and havoc!"

Erik rained kisses upon her cheek.

"So shall we get started with this project tonight?"

"Oh, Erik..." Christine moaned when his tongue traced along the sensitive flesh of her neck. "What of the opera?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts. And then once you are 'indisposed', Geraldine shall take over. Come, we have wasted enough time apart. I do not intend to waste any more."

Later on, after the mad encounter of heated lust that they had both been aching for, Christine glanced outside of the window of their bedroom. She saw snow falling upon the ground.

Funny how brutally cold it seemed outside when she had never felt more safe and protected and warm.

For she was lying in Erik's embrace...and she was home at last...


End file.
